2 of 5

Write now Article Tools

Purple, red, blue and orange,
In bottles, cups, cans and shots.
Music blaring, hurts my ears.
A writhing mass of sweating bodies -
Frenzied dancing to the beat.
Thundering roar of stamping feet.

Stumbling in a drunken daze,
Through the house, a drunkards maze.
Faltering steps like a newborn babe,
Falling through an open door.
See the toilet. Shut the door.

Kneeling on a cold white floor,

Clammy and with shaking hands.
Looking round in relief - ah!
Muted sound and cool fresh air.
A girl crying in the shower,
Probably had too much to drink.

Resting my head on the toilet lid,
And the room's spinning out of control.
Head lolling and dribble flowing,
Raise my head and up it comes,
An unstoppable tide that burns inside.
There's vomit on this dress.
But I'm feeling good.

Stumbling out of the toilet
And stumbling in to the sea of blurs,
Trying to dance with drunken people,
Stepping on each other in time to the beat.
Falter and fall. There's me on the floor,
Beginning to crawl.
A desperate pilgrimage to find the toilet.

I spy. A door. Towering tall and wobbling.
Crawling in, in search for the bowl.
No bowl, but a bed.
Ooops. Wrong room.
And there's Stacey King and Ian Smith.
One a friend the other a crush.
Going for the third base on the bed. Whore!
I puke again, there on the floor.

Sitting in the hall, eyes leaking tears.
Music still thumping, air still cloying,
Still feeling sick, room spins on.
Think I'll go home now. Go ring my dad.
He'll bollock me for sure, for being drunk so bad.

Crawling again towards the front door,
Over bodies on the battlefield floor.
Music still banging,
Like the beat of the drum.
Dads car. Prepare for a tirade.
Thinking of my friend,
The back-stabbing fool,
The kids'll slaughter her,
Monday at school.

Learn more about this author, Natasha Wrall.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Satire: Desire?
We want to hear your view. Write now!