Call it dung, call it excreta, call it fertiliser if you must—
dress it in gold leaf, perfume it with French musk,
it remains what it is:
the body’s blunt rejection,
the indigestible remnant of appetite.
Shit is shit.
But the world is drunk on pseudoscience—
turning sewage into scripture,
dirt into doctrine,
men into messiahs.
We are lost, and the lost will cling to flotsam,
even if it is burning.
They mistake the reek of rot for incense,
and bow before it.
Politics plays this game best.
The Caesars of old staged bread and circus,
today’s leaders stage hashtags and wars.
We voted for “change,”
and got chains.
We trusted the Left, and were left behind.
We trusted the Right, and lost our rights.
The compass is smashed—
north looks like south,
truth looks like myth,
shit looks like art.
Shakespeare saw this decay:
“Sound and fury, signifying nothing”—
Macbeth’s cry echoes still in parliaments and palaces,
where men declaim virtue and practise vice,
where Lady Macbeth’s hand-washing
is the foreign minister’s press conference,
scrubbing blood from trade deals.
Philosophers warned us:
Nietzsche said we stare too long into the abyss—
now the abyss tweets back.
Plato spoke of the cave—
but we, with video-on-demand,
pay a subscription for the shadows.
Camus spoke of the absurd—
and here we are,
pretending dung is destiny.
History testifies:
Hitler’s lies marched millions to their graves,
Stalin’s paranoia starved nations,
today’s demagogues use softer words—
“security,” “tradition,” “identity”—
but the bodies still pile.
Kashmir burns, Gaza bleeds,
Ukraine shivers under iron rain,
and the West debates the price of gas.
Most men do not want truth.
Truth is Job on the ash heap,
truth is Socrates with the hemlock,
truth is Christ on the cross,
betrayed with a kiss.
We prefer the sweet deceit,
the lullaby over the scalpel.
We ask for meaning,
but accept merchandise.
And yet, one thing remains:
shit, however sanctified,
however wrapped in silk rhetoric,
is shit.
Beauty is beauty, in thought or deed,
and cannot be forged from faeces.
Call a cesspit a cathedral,
and the stench will still betray you.
So let us speak with blunt tongue,
not bow to the polite lie.
Shit is not sacred,
not symbolic, not profound—
it is waste.
And the moment we forget this,
the world becomes what it now resembles:
a kingdom of flies,
swarming over excrement,
crowing that it is gold.