poozine is a collection of 12 poems and 3 works of art surrounding the topic of shit. First envisioned in January 2022, the zine was physically published in June 2023 as an edition of 100. Thanks to friends such as ning-ning's sari-sari store, Display Distribute, Bad Times Disco, and gwobean, it now has an afterlife in various art and zine book fairs, a bookstore, and possibly informal libraries.
Digital copies of poozine are freely available here. Physical copies of poozine are available on request by emailing thebewilderedhuman[at]gmail.com at a sliding scale cost of 50–80HKD + postage. All proceeds for poozine go towards covering printing costs and supporting gwobean.
A text-accessible version of poozine may be found below.
neon genesis shitting at 4am is the loneliest you'll ever be, by Melissa
Zinemaker’s note
Why make a zine about shit?
I didn’t really have a reason when I started making this zine. It was January 2022 in Hong Kong, I was in quarantine for three weeks, and wanted to do make something of that time. The toilet paper was the most interesting element of the room I was stuck in and I wanted to do something funky with it, so I reached out to friends to see if they might send over some poop-related poems.
I’m grateful that friends indulged me on this, because the works in poozine tell me a lot about what shit can mean. Shit as a reminder of the possibilities — and limits — of our fragile bodies. Talking about shit as a form of intimacy between loved ones. Shitting as an activity that we do and forget about when all is well, but becomes seared into our memories when things go south. I am reminded that we were all babies once, and that our caretakers would used the quality of our shit as a primary indicator of our well-being. As the poems here suggest, not much changes once you can shit by yourself, except now *you* are the one monitoring your own shit and well-being.
There is also something to be said about poozine as an exercise in just making shit. ‘Just make shit’ is the only axiom that has persuaded me to create anything at all, and while I think intentionality is crucial sometimes you don’t know what your intentions are until you make something — anything.
That has been my experience, at least, and I wonder if the same can be said for the other writers and artists in this zine.
Hay
30 May 2023
1:39 AM
bury me at cheese creek, by cecilia
Photo by Laetitia Keok
by Dri Chiu Tattersfield
I look every time.
stand, survey my body’s
report of its internal affairs,
intestines’ journal entry
(sometimes rant)
soft mud, slippery seal, gnarled stone
how could shapes so real have grown inside of me?
between the metal in my uterus & T in my veins
I will never birth a child.
instead I rise from the toilet, gaze lovingly
at this thing my body has made
then let it go
I look every time.
stand, survey my body’s
report of its internal affairs,
intestines’ journal entry
(sometimes rant)
soft mud, slippery seal, gnarled stone
how could shapes so real have grown inside of me?
between the metal in my uterus & T in my veins
I will never birth a child.
instead I rise from the toilet, gaze lovingly
at this thing my body has made
then let it go
by Laetitia Keok
Not having pooped in a week, I sit
on the toilet seat drinking prune juice,
trying to coax something out of me.
Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t.
As a child suffering from frequent bouts
of constipation, I feared my poop
would have no other logical exit
but my mouth. As an adult, I know better
to drink a glass of warm water every morning.
To always keep fruit in the fridge. To drink coffee
for emergencies only. I try not to think
about the laxatives of my childhood,
or the suppositories that I pooped out
instead of poop, or that time I spent 30 minutes
squatting over the school toilet, convinced
I was going to die.
Besides, according to TikTok, I’m a hot girl.
According to TikTok, there are hot girls like me.
So if the poop only comes when it wants to,
then at least I’m a hot girl too.
Yet here I am: on the toilet, the poop tracker
in my notes app gloating at me. Oh my god,
I text my friend S, I’m constipated again.
Oh my god, she replies, me too.
Pak City Postscript
by Chi Siegel
In Suly I drink bad
water it’s not the water’s
fault it’s my gut’s fault
for being not-from-Suly
and not-used-to-it and
so shit-out-able yes I shit
out my guts every four
days for an entire month
a rhythm created of activity
days and shit days
on the toilet I read
books at first but then
eventually old fanfiction
my stomach lining takes
me back to being young
before I ever tangled
with my intestines these
days which is months later
everything I eat that I can
hold down I treasure
by Joyce
shit, say hi. shit, meet toilet. shit, I'm sure you'll get along: neither of you can keep your mouth shut and i don't know how to feel about it anymore, shit. shit, did I ever tell you? when i was a child i was terrified. toilet only knows to yawn its mouth open and ask for everything and I was so small, I thought I'd fall in forever. nowadays I don't feel any bigger but I relish the time I spend in its jaws. it's a void, but it's my void. shit, I guess your void now. shit, I hope y'all are happy together. shit, meet toilet. shit, say bye.
Reading the Bristol Stool Chart for Joy and Self-Enlightenment
by Mindy Taenda
They say you are what you eat.
So this seems a natural conclusion.
It's really THE natural conclusion.
Type 1
You've been through a lot. This is a tough time and you have been stronger than anyone has had the right to demand of you. It's okay to cut yourself a break. Have some water. Maybe eat a papaya.
Type 2
People tell you you're hard to read. You tell those people to FUCK OFF. Did you ask for an opinion? Did you? No! Who do they think they are anyway?
Type 3
You're going to miss your usual bus today. But you're also going to stand next to a cute stranger on the next one! You'll peek to see them scrolling on twitter and you're going to sherlock scan their screen till you get a hold of their username.
At work, you pull up their account on your computer. Somehow, they've blocked you.
Type 4
It's fine. Your bubble tea order is 25% sugar with less ice, milk oolong. Sometimes you think you're going to get a little spicy, a little daring. Try the fruit tea selection? ...no, not today.
Type 5
Type 4, except sometimes you get full ice.
Type 6
Weed is not a substitute for a personality, my guy. You haven't washed your socks in months. You're using expired moisturiser. Yea, you saw the label. You aren't fooling anybody. Are you rubbing butter on your chapped lips? Ugh.
Type 7
People tell you you're loud, you're A Lot. And you hold that as a point of pride.
There is less kindness in their words than you might think. Slow down, my friend.
And maybe cut down on the papaya.
Photo by Laetitia Keok
![text exchange between two friends goes as follows. h: i'm going to look at this reddit / i am currently putting tgt poozine M:exciting / I am excited to hear this while I am popping / [about the reddit] Yea it's rly quite something H: omg are you pooping rn M: Yes H: excellent M: Are you pooping rn H: no but i want to M: HAHAHAHA H: are our bowels telepathically linked too M: yes /of course](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1hVHURN0D1S5PZOrWCsrVwi3SfLCHSCCm0s4_sjNFZfQmMCUPw1JdK-BCfYja58pCn2Pqdv2v8A7VuNZdzYRHUEf8cpy1w9HU8fe2qyDOvMI3bKSE_V1gSgbgHnwoaNycYKopG6_JzaKQg45cEbJRkRp-QyxsoNmgvV-PVMZsdZpRdOTaI56TGIx-6Sv/s1318/telepathic%20pooping.png)
digestive tendencies
by jaydee
my mom casually tells me, “i haven’t pooped since friday”
as i eat my lunch at the counter.
it is now a wednesday.
this is far from the first time she’s talked to me about her concerning bowel movements,
but it never fails to elicit an outraged, “mom!” from me,
followed by a plea that she please see a doctor.
she says she’s going to try pooping the next day.
she plans for her time on the toilet,
eats laxatives, buys a can of spray to help with the smell,
and spends a long, long time in the bathroom.
“congrats” i will tell her later when she’s emerged from the bathroom, successful.
or
“sorry, that sucks, so maybe you go see that doctor?” if she is not.
the bathroom stinks regardless of the result.
my family is divided along these lines:
my mother, my sister constipated,
me, my brothers, my dad lie on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“stop bragging,” my sister complains
if my brothers or i say that we’ve pooped for the second time that day.
when she was six, my sister cried herself to sleep, unable to poop that day.
my mom gave her milk to drink as she at on the toilet,
wailing about the brick stuck in her butt.
sometimes, when my stomach churns, upset,
and i mentally prepare to be sat astoop the toilet,
shitting as i scroll on the phone until i’ve seen everything there is on my TL,
until the red imprints of my elbows rests on my knees,
i remember how pained her cries were that night,
and feel grateful that the ancestors blessed me with my father’s digestive tendencies.
i don’t talk to my father anymore — or, not about anything meaningful.
we might not have ever talked about anything meaningful, actually.
but this links us still.
which is odd, i guess.
i didn’t really know i had feelings about it until i thought about
poop as an undeniable means of closeness, familiarity:
my friend, who told the hospital that i was her sister,
texts “this has turned into a slightly painful poop ripp
gonna need a sec” when she is late to our weekly call.
my friend and her SO tell me about how the first time they talked about their poop,
it was a milestone in their relationship,
and when the SO turns to me and asks, “so, what’s your poop like?”
i have to laugh, delighted to be forming this new relationship.
every day, i pick up my dog’s poo during his walks, and
when i left for the holidays, my roommates said he started pooping in the home.
google said that he was probably socially anxious,
that his poop was a message,
a sign of attachment.
by jaydee
my mom casually tells me, “i haven’t pooped since friday”
as i eat my lunch at the counter.
it is now a wednesday.
this is far from the first time she’s talked to me about her concerning bowel movements,
but it never fails to elicit an outraged, “mom!” from me,
followed by a plea that she please see a doctor.
she says she’s going to try pooping the next day.
she plans for her time on the toilet,
eats laxatives, buys a can of spray to help with the smell,
and spends a long, long time in the bathroom.
“congrats” i will tell her later when she’s emerged from the bathroom, successful.
or
“sorry, that sucks, so maybe you go see that doctor?” if she is not.
the bathroom stinks regardless of the result.
my family is divided along these lines:
my mother, my sister constipated,
me, my brothers, my dad lie on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“stop bragging,” my sister complains
if my brothers or i say that we’ve pooped for the second time that day.
when she was six, my sister cried herself to sleep, unable to poop that day.
my mom gave her milk to drink as she at on the toilet,
wailing about the brick stuck in her butt.
sometimes, when my stomach churns, upset,
and i mentally prepare to be sat astoop the toilet,
shitting as i scroll on the phone until i’ve seen everything there is on my TL,
until the red imprints of my elbows rests on my knees,
i remember how pained her cries were that night,
and feel grateful that the ancestors blessed me with my father’s digestive tendencies.
i don’t talk to my father anymore — or, not about anything meaningful.
we might not have ever talked about anything meaningful, actually.
but this links us still.
which is odd, i guess.
i didn’t really know i had feelings about it until i thought about
poop as an undeniable means of closeness, familiarity:
my friend, who told the hospital that i was her sister,
texts “this has turned into a slightly painful poop ripp
gonna need a sec” when she is late to our weekly call.
my friend and her SO tell me about how the first time they talked about their poop,
it was a milestone in their relationship,
and when the SO turns to me and asks, “so, what’s your poop like?”
i have to laugh, delighted to be forming this new relationship.
every day, i pick up my dog’s poo during his walks, and
when i left for the holidays, my roommates said he started pooping in the home.
google said that he was probably socially anxious,
that his poop was a message,
a sign of attachment.
Photo of jimmy, as raised by jaydee
by amber
double trouble
by Levin
with her partner (at the time)
she said, i quote: it felt like
i was
taking
a
big
shit
ok but she didn't tell me
exactly, exactly how, they got there
then A wanted to do a podcast so,
she asked from me my
greatest, greatest strength
at the time i said, i quote: i think
i'm very good
at
pegging
people
she laughed but that's NOT what i meant
well at last M told me that the idea of anal was on his checklist
he pulled out from his chest
of drawers, under the undies,
a big double-ended dildo, you know,
he used it with his ex
and of course, of course he had disinfected it already,
right, right, so we tried it, i thought:
i'm very good
at
pegging
people
but that was a lie because i had asked, then,
you're going to the toilet NOW?
why are you putting a condom on IT?
how do i put this end in [ME]?
and truth be told i got bored halfway
but still, and yet,
he came anyway,
but not me, not me,
i was just tired of handling his shit at this point.
when i pulled out of him it was all in the clear
spotless, kinda,
he said: i'm very good at douching
i tried anal, i said, and it felt like i was taking a big shit.
328 Katong Laksa
by Nicholas
Medium laksa––
red-sheeted and tumeric-hued
perspiring crustacean milk
cocktail. We inhaled
by spoonfuls; waves of ocean
stirred within. An unending
streen. Have we comprehended the
magnificent gradient
muddied, that passed through us? I emerge from
the deep end, and there you are
Due To My Bowels I Will Not Be Able To Make It To Work Today
by Hayley Wu
truth be told i am not
much more than a vessel
awaiting its next good shit.
arguments to the contrary
have yet to succeed in
convincing me that i was
Brought here to do anything
more than to consume,
and then to eject, with
intermittent periods of incubation.
and yes i am a human
gacha machine but mind that
the metaphor only extends
to objects (meaning my shit).
to extend the comparison
further (ie to not my shit)
would be a gross misreading
of the situation and imply
the undesirable: that i be
useful in any shape, form, way.
all events outside of shitting
are thus coincidental, and
the things i love just happy
accidents: they live in my
stomach a lifetime, where they
may fester forever. you can't
call it constipation when i
want it there, when blockage
becomes a kind of holding
where i can be still.
The Rook and the Pigeon
by Jo Higgs
Black and white and white and black shifted and twisted across the disputed territory. The old man across from me told me he once played Kasparov and then sipped his black coffee as if t was nothing. I asked him for further information, but he just grinned and slid a rook diagonally into a bishop, flicking it off and away. He did this with such calm and repose I could hardly question its legality. As I closed in on the endgame he stood up and pointed towards a pigeon that had sprung into the café uninvited. It swung through the air clattering into all sorts and shitting all over shrieking punters. I just sat and wondered if Kasparov was ever interrupted by a pigeon. Or was I wondering if the old man had been shown his diagonal rook move by the great Russian. Or maybe I was thinking neither of these things at the time but am retrospectively projecting thoughts into the situation.
Poem in the shape of the suggestion of the side profile of a toilet
by Arron Luo
after Rachel Khong
we have the capacity to remember;
We eat more than
we can retain;
We feel more than
we can possibly carry with us.
This is what one late mid-2010s night taught
me, hunched over on my dorm room chair, not
actually seated like a normal human being but
perched instead atop it with both feet where my butt
should’ve been, gremlin-squatting, as one does,
alone and unbeholden after dark, in the private confines
of one’s own home, where one may sit as one feels
most comfortably sitting: as if over a latrine.
“Wow…” I breathe. “That’s so true…”
More than perfect hiding spot at parties
where I know some but really know no one;
More than multitasker’s throne of choice
where one can wipe and swipe at the same time;
More than reflecting pool
where my dog ponders herself:
The toilet–every place we let loose, really–
is repository of all we cannot carry with us.
Photo by Mindy Taenda
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