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Sitting on the Toilet
Sometimes I go not even to go
just sit
trousers round my ankles, a
peaceful pointless exercise
a masterpiece of futility
superfluously de – bagged
and in the bath I even lock the door
when there’s no one home
they’ll find me one day you know
undignified and nude
a serene smile on my purple lips
most likely a blue hand
floating mischievously near the groin
were the door unlocked
they might have made it
to find me asleep
blowing bubbles
in the dark.
Anyway,
you can hardly sit
there fully bagged and tempt fate
I know I don’t need to go
I know
but that room
it does something to you
no one will burst in and announce
Patrick Swazey has cancer
they can’t scream at you with an electric phone
a man can do things there
that just aren’t done
like swagger around
naked as hell
putting the world to right
examining stools with the detached concentration of a saint
or just sit, wet
and stare.
You could just be sitting there,
private
on the toilet
fully bagged
and you could just go.
So maybe there’s danger
in that serenity
or maybe if
the whole world was a toilet
we could fire our dignity down the shitter
be rid of it
examine it
with the detached concentration of a saint.
