NAPPIES

for EM

Nobody told us the baby
would make so much shit. Nobody

warned us the piles of nappies
that propped up the rocker was

unconquerable. We were buried
in walls of elasticated waist bands

that pinched our hips. Gave us rash.
We were Sudocrem freaks. Washed

our hands every six minutes.
Worried about dysentery and anthrax

and rats. But we love the warm
parcel each morning and calm

the accompanying sobs. The child
is colic or sick or overfed

or underfed, or just walking in nappies
as if she were filling her britches.

To hell with the nappies.
May their stinking white edifice rise

out of the dustbin like a Triffid
attempting to strangle the house would.

CONSTIPATION

for SJ

I felt it first
in my gut,
which contorted
around turds
like a brow
solving a problem.
It was not
the one thing,
but several
backed up
and hardening
into a fist
of stones.

My bowel
inflated
with flatulent
shouts and groans
that could not
commute
themselves
beyond the brick
of shit
that had settled
in my colon.

I puffed
as I pushed
my entire pelvic
floor at
the enormous
turnip that lodged
in my large
intestine.
I had taken
in too much 
and not enough
fibre, so
I swelled
like a pregnant sow, 
burdened
with a bellyful
of cack.

I squeezed
at my middle
in an effort
to pop
the cork
of my fizzy
brown dilemma.
No such luck!
I was stuck
with the bab
like a debt
inherited
from a dead
spouse or parent.

Eventually,
it collapsed
like a neutron star
after reaching
critical mess
in the produce aisle
of Tescos.
The staff
were polite
as they mopped
at the seeping
tide when it ran
on to pop
and crisps
and I cried
great big sobs
of relief
and I farted
and was released.