Toilet Time
I do a lot of thinking on the toilet. Sometimes, I even do some writing there.
I call it “the shitter”. I sit there and think. Sometimes with a strong coffee, sometimes not. But always, there is a book handy. Usually it is Bukowski and this one in particular.
I’ve got them all but most I torture; left in storage sheds, in the dark, in boxes around the world or at our farm. Cold, forlorned, forgotten.
But wherever I travel, I do bring one Bukowski collection along with me, to keep me company on the shitter. When I’m hungover and incapable of thought, while sitting there and gathering strength for the day ahead, it keeps me company. Misery loves misery’s companionship.
Sometimes, inspired by Hank’s mind, his twisted tales and thought, I’ll write something. I’m usually adverse to writing in books - along with bread and beer, they are sacred objects. Drop a book, you better kiss it when you pick it up or they’ll be hell to pay in the hereafter.
But sometimes the God’s look aside and I write in the margins of Hank’s books (only his - just seems like he should be an exception).
Here are a couple I found therein, this morning.
Now Or Then
Your day will come.
Sitting on the shitter
At the end of a shift
While waiting for the lift,
Sick ‘n tired in a hospital bed
All the right words, already said ….
You’re a number
a dot on a screen
and when far away
the switch is pressed
your day will come.
You can live a life
on this big roulette wheel
of life,
spun from red to black
plus to minus
up or down …
living an endless
back and forth,
forth and back until
one spin, one time
your number comes up
and you are marched out
of the room of bells and whistles
into god knows where.
Your day has come.
This World They Made You Believe In
Listen man,
I’m going to
take it
easy on ya,
give it to you straight
— they just want it all.
Not enough
you scrapping for change
the end of each week.
Not enough
you’re working 3 jobs and
don’t have time to
kick back with your kids.
Not enough
you haven’t enough years left
to pay them back
the money owed on your credit card.
Not enough
you’re sitting inside, mask on.
Not enough
you pay your taxes and
buy, buy, buy as you’re told.
Not enough
you’ve never broke a law
and buy the medicine
your good doctor prescribes.
No, listen man.
They are coming for more.
They want it all.
They’ll suck you dry,
then say you just weren’t
cut out for it,
this world
they made you believe in.
Thanks for these two poems, David. It's very hilarious that i, too, call the shitter "the thinking room (there were times when i'd go to the shitter and came out with the idea for my next painting😂). And about the second poem, i feel like that lately because it seems they can never resist the temptation of creating robot soldiers who only believe in what the Supreme Leader says (not metal robots, humans who act like robots).