the toilet is a bastard. 

the way it stands up and moves to Iowa.
its legs mocking me. the swirl of its tongue gulping. the bastard is a toilet.
sinking and smuggling and wishing on dead goldfish. swirling and longing and listening for stars. the mockery it makes.
the water standing up to salute me.
the toilet's hat is round, its face is all smiles with no frown. 
sitting there patiently. its hat on backwards. the eyes slanted.
it eats the mold. it finds diamonds in my ass.
the bastard doesn't know it is a bastard. it doesn't know it is a toilet.
thinking my ass is its reward. 
thinking my ass provides leverage to get a new hat. 
new legs. maybe a pair of arms, too, the robotic kind that will never fall off. 
no flesh, just ceramic eyes. a ceramic brain. 
the bastard knows it is a bastard but the toilet does not. 
the toilet stares too long at me. 
burning ceramic eyes. 
i want to float like the goldfish. 
i want to see the toilet's innards. 
what life is there inside a bastard.


 
04/05/2012
Author's Note: 
self-inflicted writing exercise 

Posted on 04/05/2012
Copyright © 2026 Ava Blu

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Sarah Wolf on 04/05/12 at 08:57 PM
very creative :)