An Ode to Toilet Paper

Pandemic Poetry

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This poem will not go viral
but the world outside
is going to shit,
and who has enough coffee
to survive this apocalypse
of bullshit?

Panic, don’t panic,
allow the terrorists to win!
Cancel every plan
you ever planned to attend.
The relative calm
can’t remain calm
in the midst of the perfect
cytokine storm.

Time to go to the store,
to allow my anxiety
to sweep me up
and carry me through
the empty aisles and shelves
of the paper goods gone,
deposited into the future’s dust bin.

It’s all shite in a life of shit,
lives too effused with privilege
to see they’re covered in it,
buried in the avalanche
of more and more endless bullshit,
and no one is washing their hands!

Who the hell needs a dating app?
Walmart is the new Club Med,
where strangers touch strangers
slathered in Purell and sweat,
might as well just spit
in each other’s mouth,
might as well bend over
and take another steaming shit
right here and now,
everyone shitting so much
holy shit
just lie down
and take a bath in it.

Write your name on the wall,
smeared brown, crusted mud stink,
the fetid funk and reek of it,
the words spewed and sunk
the Republic to forfeit
truth for a false sense of comfort,
but there’s no toilet paper
to be found
in this Apocalypse of Shit
so take the Constitution
and wipe your ass with it.


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