New Writers Poetry Competition 2023 – Winner

How to cheat death in a nightclub bathroom

by Jordan Hamel

Stumble past the bouncer, find the door marked royalty, 
find an empty throne, straddle the toilet backwards
like a mechanical bull, draw a confused lipstick face
on the cistern, study the graffiti on gloss tiles, 
fuck cops, punch nazis, call Charlie for a good time xoxo, 
consider calling, watch the dividers sway like palm trees 
in a hurricane, hear your stall neighbour crying or vomiting 
or saying I love you, think about how you need to do all three,
think about that Kim Addonizio poem about a stall neighbour crying, 
how you always imagined yourself the speaker, never the subject, 
spot the gum stuck misshapen to the mirror, like a lost seahorse, watch 
the porcelain grin yellow, drain clogging like a popular gloryhole, blow
the runoff out your nose, find that breath mint you were saving, 
drown yourself in eyedrops, wait for your mates, most-glamorous 
search party of tight fabrics, milk-carton angels under strip lighting, 
take selfies with them, ask them if they’ve ever considered an orgy, 
tell them you’re joking, tell them they are your new home, 
drag yourself to your old home, wait a week, remind yourself
dopamine can exist in abundance in one part of the brain 
and be scarce in another, think about the scientists who trained 
cocaine-addicted rats to associate happiness with a lever, 
which, releases loud noises and pulsing lights, start again, 
drink more water, less gin, no shots, some shots, curse 
the shoddy movement sensor refusing your hand, tongue
the faucet like an asshole, savour the drip, look for last week’s 
breath mint, lipstick, eyedrops, stall-neighbour, friends, everything 
a thing disappeared, think about last week, no, this is the last week, 
remember next week, walk out into the snow, thank the bouncer 
for no reason, look up at the moonless sky, see satellites harvesting 
your stupor, say I love you, wait for joy to come. Keep waiting.

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