02-05-2013, 05:29 AM
A disgusting but wry and kind of poignant poem about a vile creep and the hapless narrator who's somehow drawn to such men. One question: how does the narrator have such intimate knowledge of the creep's bathroom activities? Does s/he spy on him? Because that adds a whole other level to the poem, one of voyeurism and possibly coprophilia. Thank you for the read
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe