The Cold Ring

As I sit here
on the lavatory seat
shivering through my winter vest
that I wish I was wearing
in the early hours of the morning,
weary eyed in the lamp light,
wishing that i hadn’t left the window open
or that maybe the seat was made of
something less conductive of cold,
(The cold ring has awoken me)
I remark on all the years of diligence
and effort that went into forming the seat
upon which i sit.
The master piece of masking
the smell
and whisking it all away.
The years of thought and wonder
that went into my toilet
so that I could get intestinal cancer
from pooing sitting down.



  1. Phoenix · November 20, 2007

    I don’t know what it is about this one… it just touches me. It’s horrible and harsh in its cold frankness, but still very profound. One I will definitely take with me. Great work as usual.

  2. zaphodfreek · November 20, 2007

    Oh, right.
    Well i suppose you’re right
    but i hadn’t looked at it that way.

    Glad you like.

  3. raeofsunshine · November 30, 2007

    i think you’re slightly crazy from writing a poem about a toilet. Wait, actually, I don’t think you’re slightly crazy, you ARE crazy.

    it’s okay, i still love you.

  4. raeofsunshine · November 30, 2007

    can you really get intestinal cancer from pooing sitting down? this is not something i had heard of.

  5. qazse · December 2, 2007

    The best way to avoid intestinal cancer is to poop while doing cartwheels.

    Zfreek – way to go, a poem whose setting is the toilet… that is gutsy. You pulled it off. (the poem that is).

  6. zaphodfreek · December 2, 2007

    Thanks qazse
    (good save there)

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