Writers write
that’s what we do
even when
were sitting on the loo.

A poem written on toilet paper
is a poem none the less
with the benefit
should your poem stink
you can flush it away
with the rest.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

5 thoughts on “Toilet

  1. dear mr b stop can’t stop paper smouldering from textual density stop entropic pressure melting wax stop feathers coming off stop call that a foil dress what do you think i am a chicken drumstop winston my arse and parsley stop trying to stop missing your playing don’t ever stop love to woodlice stop giving them ferrero rocher c

    • Dear Mrs Waspsnest,

      Thank you for your telegram from 1865 stop. Sorry to hear about the decline in plumage stop. Sorry to hear that Winston is bothering your arse, hope he stops soon, stop.I can’t stop now im in too deep stop. Woodlice have all the love they need stop. Send more chocolate stop.

      • Bukbuk buk bukahk
        [Babel fish translates:]
        T’is I, Queen Chuck, call me Mavis. I was speaking pheasant there to throw you off. Cissy Washy has locked herself in the bathroom – another tedious self-esteem crisis – so we’re all over the typewriter. Says she’s not coming out, not even for the arch-villain. Best to leave her to mop herself up.
        I had an egg called Winston once. Great racontoeuf. I wonder where he went?
        While you’re on, may I respectfully point out that ’round midnight should be Thelonius Monk? Incorrigible philistine.
        Also, in the above scatological sketch, what are you writing with? Toothpaste? (Striped, or white for irony?) Or do you have an unfeasibly precise aim from ‘pissing in your chips’?
        Actually, perhaps this explains the tantrum… Lightning usually strikes her in the shower and if she took up your toilet paper recommendation – can you imagine? She’d look like some sort of Arctic protest or a coconut fancy!
        Have dispatched to you this day 14 feet of coconut chocolate. Goes great with chicken–crivens! What am I saying?

      • Dear Slippery Washboard,
        Locking yourself in the bathroom is a poultry excuse for not wanting to face your arch villain.
        Maybe your egg Winston ran away with his friend Ed Bennedict?
        Round midnight is no time for Monk, I find him too dischordant at that time of night, Bill Evans is my drug of choice.
        Toothpaste is for teeth (the clue is in the name) not for writing with, tried it once but each poem was costing me £7.45 per stanza and even more if you count the number of mirrors I had to buy.
        I applaud your coconut analogy, a most striking image to set me to sleep.
        I await delivery of aforementioned confectionery.
        So long and thanks for all the fish.
        (Pronoun, not capital of Isle of Man)

      • Dear Dou-glass,
        Are you the vessel of etiquette for whisky and mint cocktails?
        I bow before a superior punstrosity!
        What were the mirrors for? Were you snorting the toothpaste? Seriously minty.
        I’m so sorry, it’s disrespectful of me to be writing to you in this state: guano and feathers all over the keys! And trusses d’amour! Whatever they sent you is likely spiked so use the woodlice as guinea-pigs. If they start laying kinder eggs or their breasts get larger you’ll be glad you did.
        You’re right, I’m very sorry, I’ve made a spectacle of myself and I’m going away to have a long, hard think…or plot. Cackles.
        Tropical and nutty dreams to you, Silly WasPish

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