At times when I am sprawled before the fireplace alone and naked save the elegant diaper I sport, diarrhea erupts from my hole.

In tepid torrents. Explosions. Spicy.

I take my classy silver-plated Boise national ornament spoon and scoop a blob inside my leg hole.

Beside me sits a scarlet vial. It dons a precious crystal cap.

I pop the top and savor the smell of aged and lingering poop in pellets.

The spoonful of stools in the breeze are a dream. Shit crystals tickle inside my nostrils. I inhale in carnal ecstacy.

"Three more pellets...", I sing to myself as I dip large clumps in the head of the vial.

I pop in the top and pet it with passion. I flick the strays I find into the fire.

I am the spirit. I am the essence.