Divan

Poets are at their strongest on the toilet.
Even when they shit, they don’t lose that feeling
of being something special.
Even when they shit, they’re convinced
of producing something magnificent,
unique and unforgettable.
Only then it seems to them
that oblivion can’t reach them.
When they’re letting go,
angels smile at them from the ceiling;
clean as unused
toilet paper.
Ignorance is so appreciated,
so welcome in those
moments
of absolute glory,
when no one near is safe
from the fervour
of a fertile poet,
a hero of domesticity
and relaxation.
How many times will
that moment,
that every child carries to the grave,
have to repeat,
how many times will he have to suppress
his purest fantasies,
in order to finally become
the master of his own lavatory.
Because the secret
that he carries inside,
each time he sits on it,
is the biggest crap
in this world.