Shit Poetry

The toilet sighed like an old philosopher.
The morning stood in the doorway, judging nothing.
My phone glowed with unpaid miracles.
The sink held last night’s face in weak silver.

I thought of money, sex, history, mould.
I thought of all the empires ending in smell.
Outside, a gull screamed over the bins
as if prophecy had found its proper cathedral.

So I washed my hands,
and entered the day like damaged royalty.

Welcome to Shit Poetry, a small chapel built beside the leaking pipe of modern life.

Here we publish poems about the things polite culture flushes too quickly: shame, bodies, hangovers, blocked ambition, cheap desire, grief in supermarket lighting, and the stubborn comedy of continuing.

Somewhere between the toilet stall and the cathedral, language still has work to do.

Fresh poem daily.