I originally wrote this during a time of mourning. My best friend and I had a falling out and at the time, I was lower than a mole rat. I wrote this as a sort of funny ode to one of the most beautiful connections I’ve ever had, so I left it mostly intact. It’s a bit of a parody of Having a coke with you but I’m not making fun of the original poem, I simply adapted it to my needs. I’m just not as talented as Frank O’Hara.
Sharing a Fart with You
especially in public when we aim it at people we don’t like
but we didn’t care,
they were Lilly’s in garbage dumps,
stars in the dark sky,
pictures of air for drowning people.
Sharing a fart with You,
is like magic.
We cannot see its wonder but we know it’s there.
We can go places and we know it exists
even if we cannot prove that it does.
They were ethereal fingerprints,
left in the open air for anyone to stumble across.
And sometimes they were funny,
other times they were cute,
mostly they were twisted and perfect in their twistedness.
And although the world may have disapproved,
they could never prove it in a court of law.
We were the grinning guilty party,
smug faces pointed to the prosecutors.
I could stare at the Mona Lisa
and wonder why anyone would want to paint a woman who probably never admitted to farting.
Then I could look at you and know that the painter was the unlucky one,
partly due to you trying to hide it,
mostly because you always failed.
What I miss most, however,
is the into-me-I-see.
The barely hidden laughs behind tiny hands,
muffled giggles followed by malodorous odors,
we always had to leave the room afterwards.
Sharing farts may sound disgusting but there was a comfort in being so familiar with someone who you could share farts and it wouldn’t be a big deal. Honestly, how much closer can you get to someone than that?