Council coin counter padlocks the  door,
**** here no more they pronounce.

The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.

Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.

Brexit ******* means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.

“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.

The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.

I broke my toilet
And my narrative
Humor was profound like the war

I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
My dad’s occupation isn’t cool
I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
So I work very hard at school
I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
My family struggles to survive
I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
I dream and strive towards a better life
I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
I dream of doctor, lawyer, even cooking food
I am a toilet cleaner’s daughter
I don’t want to be a cleaner too

Poets are annoying

When regular people are busy,
they sit and wait to drop
words into the toilet
that'll make you dizzy

They stare at the blank page
the way one stares straight
at the bathroom wall
when taking a
"shhh"
as in, "shut up" and "listen"

the few who stop to do so
won’t be impressed at all
they’ll hear only…sounds
and get headaches, or frowns
they'll choose to forget it

poems are misunderstandings
and the few who dare write them
are nameless turds, wiping
their words onto paper
and calling the stains "art"

my "shhh" is fresh, they'd say
when their breath smells like brain ****

so the moment this poem comes out
I’d like you to throw it in the toilet
and flush it down

ha ha
maybe that’s why poetry
as an art form
stays underground

it stinks
to write what no one will read
or have thoughts no one will think

poets are lonely creatures
locked in stalls with too much ink
not enough toilet paper
and the ironic need to be heard

or worse, to sound cool
with every word-dump they take
only to emerge from their solitude
the way one emerges from the bathroom:
feeling great

I hover over fractured water
the porcelain compels me to lean closer

"I am not lovable"

Are you raised or seated when you have to wipe your ***?
I feel compelled to ask you as there seems no rule of thumb.
Do you use your left hand or do you use the right?
Do you really scrub it or stroke it nice and light?
Do you scrunch the paper or fold it layered flat?
I hope I haven't intruded or offended by asking you all that?


My apologies but sometimes my brain just wont engage neutral gear.

I run to my ceramic throne,
I feel it coming I groan.
I take my seat,
Try to ****,
To no avail,
I feel terrible.
I push more and more,
My face red, my  *** sore.
One last push,one last try,
A deep breath, a loud cry,
"Who let the dogs out, woof woof,
Out you come, you goof,
Something dropped,
It  worked,
Heard a large plop.

They says that he was a dead man walking
they says that he was gonna die tomorrow
But Heaven knows that he had the essence of chakra
The two streams of consciousness within his soul
They merge into one

In the desert, there is only sand
a glimmer of water
then nothing again
and then he lies down in the dusty volcano

Truly, life is like a toilet paper roll