Public Toilets

The best public disabled changing room in brighton and also sadly the only good one. Radar key locked. There is a hoist in here! A shower! A high adjustable changing bed! The brighton council have literally thought of everything

The best public disabled changing room in brighton and also sadly the only good one. Radar key locked. There is a hoist in here! A shower! A high adjustable changing bed! The brighton council have literally thought of everything

I wandered in with desperate need, A primal urge, a silent plead. A door ajar, a flickering light— The bathroom beckoned. Not quite right. Its hinges groaned a haunted moan, The tiles cold as ancient stone. The stench! It hit me like a wall— A mix of sewage, doom, and gall. The seat, askew, was cracked and brown, A kingdom lost, a porcelain crown. The bowl was not a bowl at all— But some abyss, where hopes would fall. Dark stains that told of battles fought, Where bleach and mop had long forgot. A smear of something… unconfessed, Like ghostly fingers, poorly dressed. The walls were marked with tales in ink— Graffiti scrawled by souls on brink. "Abandon hope," one message read, "Who enters here may soon be dead." A roach parade, in perfect line, Marched past the crumpled “Sanitize!” The paper roll? A shredded dream. It hung like shame on broken beams. The sink dripped brown with rust and grime, A faucet stuck in ancient time. The mirror cracked, yet still it knew— My face aghast, the horror true. The soap dispenser coughed up mold, A relic from the germs of old. No towel, no dryer, just despair— The air itself too thick to bear. I hovered like a tragic ghost, Unsure of where to touch, at most. One flush I dared—it screamed and roared, Then sputtered filth it had ignored. The floor was sticky—what with, who knows? Some tar-like ooze between my toes. A single fly, obese and bold, Buzzed near my ear, too proud, too old. I dared not breathe, I dared not cry, I dared not question “Dear God, why?” Yet nature’s call was strong and clear, And so I braved that chamber queer. Emerging pale, I found the light— Day’s tender gleam, a gift, a right. I swore upon that foul ordeal: To cherish toilets clean and real. So if you ever find this stall, Take heed of my poetic call. Bring wipes, bring prayers, bring hazmat gear— The Toilet of Dread still lingers near.