Poems for the Toilet: A Lovely Little Satire

On The Toilet

On The Toilet

Visitor behold,

Your tension no longer

Shall blockade your comfort

Now you may rest

Now you have stumbled upon relief,

Fueled by the waters surrounding.

The smooth tiles,

Pure white with a yellow dim,

Birth cold feelings, early mornings

Upon the soles of their quick,

Anxious, solitary guest

A warm presence still

A blanket which stands below.

Above the head,

Fluorescent lights

Purchasing ease of vision

Costing lack of sound

They buzz relentlessly,

Angry for being disturbed,

Impatiently waiting for rest.

What you're looking for,

Welcomes you any time you arrive

The white porcelain throne,

The cheap lights shining off the edges,

The silver mark glistening off the torso,

There is water under.

Two guards next to it,

Solemn and unmoving

Soft, white paper by the side,

For you, the monarch, to mark it

With the creations from within

The seat is waiting to be claimed.

As your rule begins,

With the easing of your legs,

So come to release

The burden constructed

By the moments which kept the day

Flowing strongly and well

The stuff of these moments only holds so long,

Now is when it surely must be let go

The time comes for the release,

And such the time of relief

When letting go upon this special throne,

You feel now lighter

With a mind prepared to take your leave,

Carry on the rest of the day

That you might soon come back again.

If only it were so that you could stay,

But alas, the need for it has many every day.

And so, what's not been liberated

The load from within that still holds on,

Let not continue to be with you,

But rather write a tale with the paper beside,

Sometimes brief, other times lengthy

Like the web of a spider

The intricacies increase steadily

Until the job is done enough,

Never perfect, but its purpose fulfilled

Keep not the tale however,

For you wish not to give to others

What you could not keep yourself.

The glimmering tool of silver,

Standing still, marked with many a finger

Finds its use as you lend it your strength,

And the events from this magical moment

Find themselves cast away forever

Every outcome, every creation,

Sent away with the water passing beneath.

You no longer find use

For the throne, papers, rule

Then rise that another may take it

Another time, and they too

Might take a weight from their shoulders,

Or perhaps from their body below.

And so, after donning

A strange, thick syrup

Smelling sweet and softening,

The visitor runs his hand in water,

Cast out quickly, violently, steadily

By the silver snake, crying

Wonder why he stands so sad

He wets his hand thoroughly,

That it might be clear,

Yet seemingly never long enough

That it might be pure.

The lights will finally be allowed rest

The room will darken once more

Nevertheless welcoming

Whoever next feels the need

To let go of their daily burden

Before creating the empty kingdom,

The fleeing king feels one thought more.

Here in this bright, subtle place

That never takes its rest,

But gives it to many,

There is an object.

A product.

A presence.

One carried in,

One released,

One cast off

Whose existence justifies the kingdom's existence,

Whose existence balances, for its equal hassle and relief

Everyone knows it.

It is eternal.

It is here.

Always.

Shit.

~AH