Portaloo Poem: Draft 3 (Katie)

29 Jun

Intended to be staged in the auditorium with a sort of Portaloo tardis, as described in my first draft post. If you happen to have a Portaloo knocking around that you can give/lend to a worthy cause, do let me know! Also, I could really do with some feedback!

I am the Portaloo

Let me transport you

Back to that sodden field in Somerset in 2005

Paddling in a pool of creamed sewage

As you glance down and realise

That you might just be

Today’s lucky 1000th customer

Whose bonus ball breaks free from the container

And you know all too well

That mixture on the seat

Isn’t quite the chocolate Angel Delight that it half looks like

And you wish that you could go back to those nights

Of cheap desserts and 7 o’clock bedtimes

When you couldn’t even have dreamt

Of a stench like this

You try to hold your breath

For the entire duration

But that only means you have to gasp

And take it all at once

Like bitter medicine

Allowing potent particles to penetrate your airwaves

As though a drunken giant skunk has farted in your mouth

Like drowning in soiled underpants

Like Hell spat out a piece of itself upon you

I am the Portaloo

I am the home of *Noise 1 (1, 2, 3)*

I am the home of *Noise 2 (1, 2, 3)*

I am the home of *Noise 3 (1, 2, 3)*

I am the home of *Noise 4 (1, 2, ‘Eurgh’ becomes 3)* Eurgh! What’s that?

That, is a rarefied species of faeces

Birthed in the unique event of defecation

Produced only in the bleak situation

In which a teenage stomach churns a combination of;

Sapphire impregnated vodka

Seven luke-warm shots of hot magenta past their sell by date

Corner shop cider with a trail of saliva

The share of a brittle burger bought between friends only because of the hot guy at the stall

Before one undignified, knicker-flashing fall

And the magic fungi made magic by the fact that they’ve dried out a lot in the five weeks since Ashley bought them in ASDA.

The mustard sludge solidified

Like a pungent panna cotta

Inside frothy amber moat

A stagnant brew

A sickly stew

An incoming tide at the feet of you

Defends the fortress of unearthly poo

That boasts the barely recognisable flag

Of a crumpled fiver

Not yet mourned by the man

Who after drinking his entire monthly wage

Still held it through

10 more acts on the Pyramid stage

Then held both hands

In both back pockets

When eventually his muscles could relax

The guy after clocked it in a flash

But knew it wasn’t worth it

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