I would just like to remind everyone before they read this that it's 'poem a day' month.
Pissing On A Coach
The first thing that hits me is the heat,
engines grind and sweat under this tiny cabin
they rattle through my shoe-soles, they are close.
Standing before the bowl it quickly becomes apparent
this is not going to be easy.
Straddle plastic, one arm braced, belt, button-
fly, arched back, crooked knee, trousers
slide down my 's', pile from ankles.
I lower myself onto the seat, right forearm
and fingers rigid at the silver tube handle.
Sitting there unable to piss, lurching forward
with every freckle of road, I feel that somehow
I have failed. As if standing up to wee helped define me,
helped define my sense of 'man'.
That's bollocks though, I know that.
Still I can't help but want to shit.
Too far, dispel the notion.
Reverse the motion, snaking my jeans back up
to my waist, flush my shameful water
to have its splat cruelly snatched
as it's swept to vapour stretched
over the outskirts of Swindon,
leaving no mark, no record, no sound.