hotel deaths are so overdramatic
they're just random people who checked in for a day's rest that just happened to last forever
and hotel suicides
home's not a five star
but all of the murders
because they were still found
after they shaved half their heads
and dyed what's left red
and changed their names
and wore green contacts
and hurried the fuck up to hide
hotels are petri dishes for killing bacteria.
should have taken one
picture as i walked in
bed spread tight
all folded and straight
me dog tired
before a long hot shower
cramped in one tomorrow
with everything i own
spreaded wastly around
a colorful explosion
I will walk around
picking up the pieces
stepping on geography
not singing over maps
using a finger
to caress a route and
the thought of you
limping from hotel to hotel
and a sleeping bag
artists’ lives are messy
it’s a known fact
the walls are disheveled
would I have some glue
to nail you there and there
I will hop around happily
tattooing words about us
and hiding some
To compare you to a summers eve
wouldn't serve the justice,
but when your heart is open
I know your years are numbered.
One after another
they parade in your life
pillaging, stealing, burning
your eternal happiness
I'm worshiping at your alter
and keeping tabs
on your little sadnesses
but you're on your knees beside her.
I only want to see you happy
oh, how comical.
You didn't try
and you don't care.
I see pity in your eyes,
and rage rises,
because I'm not one to be pitied
or made a fool of.
And yet you make me one,
A little girl, it seems,
gawking at an idol.
I won't do this anymore,
I've suffered my damages
paid my fines
and checked out
So bring your guests,
have your parties,
lay your heart out
I wont pick up your pieces.
Because my love,
as much as it hurts,
you're hotel despondent,
and I won't be staying anymore.
The Stardust Inn had no sails of silk.
The wooly sheets chafed his sunburnt face. He couldn’t sleep with all those demons glaring at him. The bitch maids never washed the blankets and they stank like dead goats. Nobody ever cleaned his room, or bothered to replace the soap, or replace the dead lightbulbs, or fix the faulty ceiling fan.
The potpourri made the goat smell worse, somehow.
Dead goat. Dead flowers. Dead people. Dead tired.
It was hard to mend a broken soul, surrounded by such paper-thin walls. He’d lay listening to men and women shuffle horizontally, sweating and thrusting themselves raw beneath the scratchy sheets in the bed next door.
A cockroach scurried away across the carpet, over the bare foot of the Ghost where it sat crooked upon a chair in the dark. He always wanted to tell that Ghost, if it’d just fix its posture it might get some rest – but instead, never said anything at all.
The woman next door out-moaned the wind. He looked up at the Ghost, and the Ghost at him with large black eyes. He could almost hear that tortured spirit say;
“Now you know what I’ve had to deal with.”
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day
no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks
I swim through the blur of chlorine
pushing through the water
when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain
and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air
The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds
And at the bottom the city in ruins
I take my plane and dive down below the clouds
past the blur, until the city is in view just below me
I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground
Over the pale white shells of buildings
I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this:
I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display
when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune:
Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits
at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers
glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map
I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimal beauty entrancing me
until I find a large television in a small corner.
A few people are gathered around, solemn,
the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room.
First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb".
The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki,
standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field.
The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent",
or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions
Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own.
Yet it feels different coming from this;
on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by.
And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence
before it all starts again
I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above
the imagined city in ruins
And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay;
I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool