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To expose the workings of one\’s bowels in print offends most people, the smear of the ordinary the taint of the awkward.

They would sooner bend and flush than pause to examine the fabric of self to open one\’s guts with a scalpel is a squalid affair better left to the half-crazed imbecile clogging up the plumbing in hospital or zoo.

To bare one\’s flaccid ass in public derails those senses sensibly tuned to the finer things in life for after all, we all of us have our crosses to endure it is not as if we need the reminder.

Bukowski said it best

we have come from the alleys and the bars and the jails we don\’t care how they write the poem

But just when we got busy celebrating they unveiled sweeter technologies than the flame thrower to punish or seduce the invective proved all but redundant.

Nobody reads anything any more Our eyelids are all tattooed and written over.

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