purse your lips, thrust
your hips.
leggings cling to flesh like shit
dries to porcelain.
stick your head in a bucket
and let it all out.
party time is over, and the rest
of you is evacuating
to save itself from embarrassment.

it doesn’t smell as good
in this room, but the depository
is self-cleaning.

it’s times like these
that i bet you wish culture
wasn’t your front,
and you really had a bidet.