By Matt Magee
The King’s sumptuous robe lay on the floor Paved with stones of gold, with his sweaty cheeks Pressed against the filigreed porcelain throne Inlaid with jewels and dancing arabesque angels. He itched his breakfast-crusted beard, and sneezed, And a lump of steamy turd dropped out from his arse. The plop against the water turned the buzz Of the tiny fly circling in his orbit Into a sort of school-girl snigger, he thought, And he waved his regal, ring-bejewelled hand At the fly to shoo it. But the same hand That, with a swing, could drop a man to his death; The hand that’d snapped so many hundreds of necks, And had so many more hundreds of necks to snap Without even touching them; the same god-like hand That everyone rushed to kiss in fearful flattery— That hand couldn’t scare the fly off. Nor had it a word for him or he for it: It hadn’t come for royal favour, gold, or to supplant him, It only came for shit.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.