Michael Kelly returns with the world's greatest correspondence

Is there any reason not to love and worship this man?


I love your poo poems! Here are some I have made in tribute to you but not with animals (except the first a bit) and in imitation of other people -


Churning and churning in the widening ring
The turtle cannot see the bowl
My arse falls apart; the centre cannot hold
Surely some defecation is at hand
Surely the second plopping is at hand!
What rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards porcelain to be born?


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said - Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert, with their trousers down

And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my Turds, ye Mighty, and despair!"


Curry is the cruellest food, burning
All the skin off my catflap, gushing
Down into the plumbing, splashing
Dull pool with brown rain.


Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a brown planet swims into his ken
Or like stout Cortez, with naked thighs,
Silent on a bog in Darien.

Your poo damn well should be celebrated in verse and song! But what is to become of it when you get a gastric bypass? It will dwindle, it will diminish, it will be reduced to prissy little rabbit pellets at best! What then will move your muse? There is only one answer: between now and the operation you must start to collect and preserve your shit! Let none be lost! Save it, save it all! Shit in boxes, shit in bottles, shit in your hand, shit in the corner of the room. Stash it in a cupboard that future literary generations may pore over it and perhaps be inspired to spectacular bowel movements of their own! It must be collated, filed, numbered and indexed! Start a fund to set up a Kazi Poo Museum! A POO-SEUM, if you will. It would be Bangladesh's number one tourist attraction, the effect on the economy would be - Are you still in the Commonwealth? We will get the Queen to open it! Perhaps she might even be persuaded to leave a dainty offering of her own.

Oh! OH! Oh! wait though, wait though. I'm not even kidding now. I know where I can get hold of one of the Queen's turds. I'd forgotten this until just this moment after being traumatized by it when I was a child, but I swear to God it's true. I know someone who OWNS one of the Queen's turds! This is absolutely true. I have an uncle who was a sailor, and one of his friends was a steward on the Royal Yacht Britannia. And... and... you can see what's coming now... THIS MAN STOLE ONE OF THE QUEEN'S TURDS. Swear to God. He was tidying up her state-room on the yacht, and he found a floater in the royal toilet. And he took it! He fished it out with his bare hands, besmirching his elegant white steward gloves, and he took it home and kept it AND VARNISHED IT and KEPT IT ON HIS MANTELPIECE TO SHOW TO GUESTS. Swear. To. Bloody. God.

I could kiss you for making me remember this. He... He... I can't type. Imagine! But what's always tormented me, how did he sneak it back to his own menial quarters? How do you sneak a fresh stolen turd through the corridors and decks of a royal yacht crammed with the crowned heads of Europe? Did he stick it up his sleeve, did he put it in his trouser pocket, did he slip it in his jacket? Conceal it under his hat? How did he get it through Customs? Perhaps he smuggled it through stashed up his own arse. Imagine getting caught. 'Did you pack this turd yourself sir?'

I wonder if he still has it. Maybe he sold it. What kind of market is there for something like that? A specialist collector's blackmarket, like for when rare works of art get stolen, just like a reclusive billionaire somewhere who gets a kick out of keeping the Queen's turd in his safe, on a little velvet cushion, taking it out to gloat over it every once in a while, knowing he can never show anyone, but gloating, 'Mine, all mine, my precious... see how it glistens...' And it's protected by a network of lasers and so on, because there are other fanatic poo-collectors who would be jealous.

IMAGINE BEING AN INTERNATIONAL CAT BURGLAR BEING HIRED TO STEAL THE QUEEN'S TURD. I'm going to make this into a film. Lowered down on a rope from the ceiling through the lasers, Scarlett Johansen in figure-hugging black dangling over a glass case containing the queen's turd WHO WOULD NOT PAY TO SEE A FILM LIKE THAT but it's protected by pressure-pads too, weight sensitive, they have to replace it with a turd of the exact same weight, shape, size and consistency. Which they have procured, this is the genius part, by sending letters to 100,000 women of the Queen's size and age asking them to send in a turd, it's like a health survey or a marketing promotion or something, if they send in a turd they can win a prize, and they sift through them in this warehouse until they find one that matches.

There's a great scene, the criminal gang are in the warehouse, and they've opened up 99,999 envelopes containing turds and none of them are any use, they're surrounded by discarded wrapping and a mountain of shit, and they say, 'Well, that's it, we can't beat the security then.' Then, 'Wait a minute, there's one left, from a Mrs. Ethel Gilhooley of Brooklyn.'

'It matches! It matches! Size, shape, roughage coefficient,' says the brainy tech-guy who knows all about turds. He was thrown out of MIT for snorkelling in the septic tank or something, he bloody loves turds.

'Shall we send her a prize?'
'If this succeeds,' says Vin Diesel, kissing the turd, 'I'm going to have Mrs Ethel Gilhooley's beautiful ringpiece plated in solid fucking gold.'

So they steal the Queen's turd from this miser who's been hoarding it, and it's worth a fortune. But how could you authenticate something like that? Would it come out with some kind of coat of arms stamped on it? Would it come out with a slightly crown-shaped cross-section from the royal pucker? Someone examines it with a jeweller's lens, 'Ah, that's from the pukka pucker.' A guy in Amsterdam who's the world expert in authenticating them and spotting royal turd forgery, this ancient Jew in a back alley who all the great museums consult, the secret was handed down to him by his grandfather, the proctologist to Prince Albert, and he's also the only one who can restore them if they get broken. 'Gesso...  gold leaf...  chocolate mousse... ' And for a price he can cut it for you into a polyhedron of twenty glittering facets. Or into several smaller ones, so you can have them mounted on a necklace. If you rub two royal turds together and one of them smears, it's a fake. The real shit is hard, hard, adamantine! They can be used for drill bits. 'That's the real shit, bro, I wouldn't burn you.' That's the other commercial use, you can get high off it.

But with the recession, none of the hardcore coprophiles can come up with any money to buy the Queen's turd. So they decide to ransom it back to her, sending a slice through the post for proof, she opens the envelope at breakfast and, 'Eek!' 'We've got your turd, etc,' But then MI5 are called in and they're caught. However they've hidden the Queen's turd cleverly. Where do you hide a tree? In a forest. Where do you hide a log? In some horrible public toilets somewhere which are already filled with floaters. There's a room full of turds and the police have to decide which one is the Queen's. It's like the ending of Indiana Jones 3, the Holy Grails, the fake turds are all showy and glittery, the real queen's turd is honest and homely, workmanlike, but sacred nonetheless. The police come in and have to choose one. By taste. The foolish ones lick the false turds and die but the wise one partakes of the real Queen's turd and is granted eternal life.

Sorry, I am talking shit.

But seriously a bypass??? And your lungs? I'm so sorry, that's rough, and to have to give up most of the good ingestible things in life at once must be devastating. I hope it all goes OK anyway. I don't even get how it works, how you get nutrition, where the hell does the food go after it's detoured from your stomach? I'll look it up, it sounds awful. Is it different from the elastic band thing? Get an elastic band thing instead, that would be cool, having an elastic band in your stomach, you could train yourself to twang it and project your shit for miles, a gastric catapult, a bum-ballista, you could bend over and rain turds down on people three streets away.

It's so good to hear from you anyway. I have so much to tell you, so little time! Strike that, reverse it, nothing of moment is going on here, hence the above. I got a garbled message about your garbled call, I've been too disorganised to return it. I can't watch those Dipjol links yet alas, video doesn't work on this, I'll have to borrow someone's laptop. I'm writing another book or books. It is good to see you back writing articles, they're most excellent, BUT YOU WRITE A BOOK SOON PLEASE!

Yours, Mikey-Poo

ps DRESS WARM AT SCHOOL and if anyone bullies you sit on them and shit on them

like a burning butterscotch tire is how it smelled

bizzy the lizzy
dude wait
you are right dude
about gastric bypass apparently not affecting your shit
although I had a hard time find any definitive report
because some people were like

arafat kazi
man goddammit

bizzy the lizzy
but most people were like I ONLY SHIT 2 OR 3 TIMES A DAY
er every few days

arafat kazi
i was looking forward to shittin' out some oil

bizzy the lizzy

arafat kazi
hahaha oh god dude can i tell you something if you promise not to judge me

bizzy the lizzy


arafat kazi

no the grease is if you cut down on red meat, it's happening to me now too, i had a non-greasy shit today for the first time and i also had red meat for the first time in months
ok so anyway
back in the day there was this pill called xynecal
or something
that would stop your stomach from processing the fat

arafat kazi
so you'd shit out the oil

bizzy the lizzy
right I remember this

arafat kazi
i would have the stinkiest shits with little pools of pure stinking oil
on top
sometimes i would accidentally fart a spurt of oil
like it was disgusting
because what happened was
oil being lighter than water
the oil would just float to the top
sometimes it would be like petrol in a puddle
sometimes it would be a thin biofilm

bizzy the lizzy
hahahaha allah

arafat kazi
so what i used to do
was that once i lit my cigarette
i would drop the match RIGHT ON THE OIL

bizzy the lizzy
ew ew ew ew ew ew this is going to be SO NASTY

arafat kazi
and watch it fizzle

\bizzy the lizzy


arafat kazi

i don't know why i enjoyed it so much
god dude
this goes on livejournal unfrotunately

bizzy the lizzy
ahhahahahahhahahahhahhahahhahaa I am lolling

arafat kazi
with your name erased

bizzy the lizzy

ho ho ho ho
hahhahahaah allah
god dude
that is really... bizarre

arafat kazi

i swear to you i never spoke of this to anybody in my life until now

bizzy the lizzy

hahhahahaa what a baroque perversion
dude I am lolling so hard
hahahaha that I just started coughing on my own laugh
my eyes are watering
thinking about you setting alight your shit oil
like you were on the decks of the mighty pequod
harvesting the oil of the spermacetti

friend pooetry update

poetofthefall2002 12:20
oh jesus dude
what is coming out of me
oh jeeeeeesus
god dude
the weeklong development
is slowly erupting
arafat kazi 12:25
poetofthefall2002 12:25
jesus dude
this may have to be documented with a jpg
i intentionally overate today
to blast open the dam
here i go
o jesus o jesus o dipjol save me!
dipjol o jesus dipjol
arafat kazi 12:26
poetofthefall2002 12:26
god dude I name this turd Dipjol Jr
allah it's not even a turd
it's like a big ball
of shapeless slugs
that stink like cabbage
arafat kazi 12:27

pooetry of the day 13 feb 7:25 PM

Little muddy dog
Extend your brown paw
Sink into the ooze
It is the devil's maw

An octopus's garden
Tendrils were my meal
Vermicelli crumbles
Into memories of cornmeal

Chickens become nuggets
Nuggets turn into gold
My turds could fill your bucket
If you'd let me be so bold

since poopalicious is taken up by my wonderful friend

As I just asked her of the same name: I need advice, and I'm impatient so I'll ask you guys:

i want to start a blog where i write poetry about my poop but it'll all be animal-themed. Here are two examples:



My question is: what do I call the blog?


my turd is an angry brown dog

I thought that I was all grown up and over these things but here I am again, finishing college (I had one semester left long story) and having turd adventures in Boston. I'm sorry.

arafat kazi 11:26

dude i will tell you the nasty thing
that i didn't tell before
in the light of this discovery
so my shit all flushed right
except for one big turd
and this just wans't going
so i was like oh god neda made it overflow so now i have to break this up (note: this is because my friend was visiting last weekend and she shat up my commode and made it overflow, which is why i panicked)
but what do i break it up with?
i can't use a brush because cleaning it would be a bitch
my friend 11:27
oh my god
arafat kazi 11:27
so i flushed and when the water was at the low ebb
my friend 11:27
you are going to make me puke with this
arafat kazi 11:27
what i did was i stuck a bunch of toothpicks in it
hoping to break the structural integrity
but i was trying to pull it apart while bent down and it didn't happen and the smell was nauseating me
so what i did was i picked up the turd by toothpick
and then over the water
i had to pull and tug
and it still wouldn't break
so i took another toothpick
and cut grooves into the turd
and perforated the groove lines
and then i put it back
and then when i flushed it went away
i was sick so i didn't shit last night or all day today but then when i was feeling better tonight i ate a bunch of lettuce and spinach
that's why