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.


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,


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.

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