The Toilets

A Poem

The Toilets

There’s a toilet in the next room singing,
Its head elongated, contorted, skibiding
At anyone and everyone; Between it and me,
A black iphone screen, video player backlit.
It seems as if all things have transpired,
Every movement has moved—is moving,
All motion is in motion. Toilets bark at the screen.
I have mulled over camera-heads and toilet fiends,
But no man has ever sat upon the porcelain,
While his phone is crowded with toilet heads at war,
And to the glory and shame of man, I have never before.
Now while I have sat in the dark of night,
And felt the crisp cool air under Orion’s watch,
I have tried to whistle in the stars’ faint light,
I’ve heard the toilet skibidi; And I said:
So this is man. What better story can be told—
The night does not follow night, And the heart of man
Has a little dignity, but less resilience
Than a toilet, and a weaker scent that does not
Smell of its own madness. (This and other
Mediations will transpire at other times
After skibidi silence flushes its epitaph.)
Now remember courage, go to the door,
Open it and see whether protruding from the bowl
Or languishing in cringe, a memetic beast,
Perhaps of golden nostalgia, with longing eyes,
Like a spoiled meal heaved upon the floor,
Will skibidi—and man might never be known.

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This poem is an imitation of Allen Tate’s “The Wolves”, I encourage you to read it.

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