Devra is in the stall next to me, I have all the toilet paper in the stall with me. It comes in big rolls, maybe for hefty women that can't hold it and I picture homeless women shitting where I sit, Devra is next to me asking about the toilet paper. Maybe there was sex in this stall, the woman hoists herself up to meet the mans pelvic bone, one thrust and her foot is in the toilet, her head back, his lips muffling her moans. When I am done I pour a mound of liquid soap onto my palm, washing away all of the images that flood through my mind like a broken pipe, a septic tank. A woman and her son walk in, but Devra is in the stall with all of the toilet paper, and I know she's reading the graffiti, jotting numbers onto the underside of her arm, the flesh soft and malleable, like the son's mind. He might grow up in women's restrooms, taking their underwear while they sleep he writes down the numbers on plastic walls too.
that's fucking cool. it's so nice to read poetry that isn't all angsty teenager bollocks, like all of mine. i love graffiti! if you ever find them in your wierd country, books by Nigel Rees are marvellous, it's collected amsuing graffiti from all over the world...
a long time ago, i wrote above the cistern of one of the male toilets in senior highschool, "right now you are the only person in this school who knows what they are doing"... i was very disappointed to find the next day that it had been cleaned off... bastards...
I hate poetry, I could never stand it. I just thought it was always boreing and lazy an never saw a pointless an did my best to avaoid it. This I love though. I em very glad I read it an I thank you for it. I'm going to fucken print this out and post it in my bathroom when I get a chance, maby even frame it i love it so much. I will have to take a pic when I do this for yea, lol.
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I have all the toilet paper in the stall
with me. It comes in big rolls, maybe
for hefty women that can't hold it
and I picture homeless women shitting
where I sit, Devra is next to me asking
about the toilet paper. Maybe there
was sex in this stall, the woman
hoists herself up to meet the mans
pelvic bone, one thrust and her foot
is in the toilet, her head back, his lips
muffling her moans. When I am done
I pour a mound of liquid soap onto
my palm, washing away all of the
images that flood through my mind
like a broken pipe, a septic tank.
A woman and her son walk in,
but Devra is in the stall with all
of the toilet paper, and I know
she's reading the graffiti, jotting numbers
onto the underside of her arm, the flesh
soft and malleable, like the son's mind.
He might grow up in women's restrooms,
taking their underwear while they sleep
he writes down the numbers on
plastic walls too.
That's all I got.
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my world stops.
I am a slave to her,
I live to read what she writes
and when I get lucky,
she writes about me.
Sing to me my muse,
my beautiful cherub.
Sometimes I could swear I've fallen in love with her.
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"NO MORE BUSH!"
"Congradulations! Did you shave it?"
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who Mike is and why he was here.
Sometimes I wonder how reliable
bathroom philosophy is."
That's my favorite part.
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who Mike is and why he was here.
...and why he was in the ladies room.
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why Rose is overly critical.
But then I realize that
I love her for it.
Let's make babies.
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a long time ago, i wrote above the cistern of one of the male toilets in senior highschool, "right now you are the only person in this school who knows what they are doing"... i was very disappointed to find the next day that it had been cleaned off... bastards...
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There've been a bunch of interesting threads in this bathroom in a bookstore I frequent about God and politics and shit. Bathroom graffiti is awesome.
Nigel Rees...I'll check him out.
((I'm expecting corruption. And more pretty pictures.))
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You remember!
<3
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Thank YOU.
<33333!
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