Pissing poetry

 3rd January, 2021: 

It’s pushing a month since I returned to Newcastle now, after having been sent home prematurely for Christmas break, from the social nest I’d spent nearly three months carefully cultivating at university. Whilst it was a welcome break from the stacks of unwashed dishes piling up in my flat’s kitchen, and the oppressive breeze blocks I woke up to every morning, even the novelty of a dishwasher pales in comparison after a while, to the inevitable freedom that one enjoys in student accommodation. 

This particular morning I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, to the sound of my brother reciting a Sylvia Plath poem he’s just endeavoured to learn, claiming it is his favourite since receiving a collection of her poetry for his birthday. Yesterday. 

This seems to be a regular occurrence in my family abode as of late. One can hardly take a piss in piece without someone loitering on the landing, reading aloud a verse or two, of Shelley or Byron or even Ted Hughes. 

‘Fancy some lines of Roger McGough?’ 

‘No I don’t, so can you please fuck off!’

A few moments later as I set the coffee on the stovetop, my dad comes through from the living room where he’s been practicing morning yoga, gladly assuring me that there was no urine on the mat today. It’s only a moment later when the family cat totters through behind him, that I realise he wasn’t referring to himself. 

The cat is getting on bless her, and intertwined amongst the proclamations of verse, it’s not unusual to hear frequent shouts of ‘for fuck’s sake Coco, not on the carpet!’ at least several times a week. Still, you can hardly blame her, given that she is probably forced to listen to the majority of recitals as we selfishly invade her napping spots which we’d foolishly perceived as corners of our own home. In fact, I wouldn’t blame her if her “accidents” were actually her best attempt at communicating to us a formal complaint. A urination protestation, if you will. 

I suppose we ought to just be thankful that as of yet, she’s not come to associate poetic proclamation with domestic defecation.