Digbeth Dining Club

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This is probably my favourite recent poem of mine. It was written in the early hours of the morning after coming back from a night out. A friend of mine is getting married soon so, for his stag do, he had a few different celebration type things over a weekend. On the Friday evening we went to something called Digbeth Dining Club (DDC for short) which is a cool event in Birmingham full of what is essentially very nice street food from all over the world.

While we were there, one of the guys went to use the bathroom. When he returned he brought with him a terrible tale. It was independently verified by myself and another friend. This is the story of John’s visit to the DDC loo.

Digbeth Dining Club

The streets were clear in Digbeth, there was something in the air
A disturbance in the urban urgency
Mothers cradling their children closed the windows, whispering
Some dark wonder grew there under DDC

Underneath a certain staircase, in the corner of the bar
Lit in passes by the glasses glistening by
Was a toilet, wet and soiled and stained and yet, this was the place
That a tragic kind of magic came to lie

No one heard the clatter in the chat, so no one knew
In the smell, a small cup fell down from a face
The door slid slowly open and a figure fled in shame
Gone and been to set the scene, prepare the place

John entertained, regaling us with strange and sickly tales
Nature rang, so up he sprang in usual mirth
And I could have sworn the planets were aligning as he left
All assembled felt a tremble in the Earth

As he passed, young women shivered, as he entered in, men shook
Through the gloom, across the room our hero edged
A storm by now was growling in his bowels, he checked the bowl
In the rim, all slick and slim, a cup was wedged

Something in him felt it then, foreboding, second sight
In any case, he took his place upon the seat
And for a while he reigned upon his fickle, faecal throne
Then deposed, the young man rose up to his feet

As he turned to his creation, bent to look into its face
What he found would have astounded anyone
Only paper in the water, not a submarine in sight
Then he saw, with dropping jaw, what he had done

All John’s ghastliest constructions hadn’t made it to the loo
His emissions took position in the cup
In ignorance he’d sat there, as his temperamental guts
Poured their malice in the chalice, piling up

He looked on, not believing the relieving of his waste
Could produce so dark a juice infused with wee
It was hard to break his gaze away, his self-made dirty pint
No, this potion of bowel motion couldn’t be

Retreating from the miracle, returning to his friends
Off his feet, into the eating booth he slid
He leant across the table, grinning proudly as he said
You are never gonna guess what I just did!

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This picture was not taken in Digbeth Dining Club and there is no poo in it. But there’s only so much one can do for art.

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