Maids see it all

But they  hardly ever tell

Well...

Occasionally one might sell

A juicy story

About you in naked glory

To add to your fame

And your shame

It's all part of the game

Who can blame

The person who buffs

And fluffs

Your stuff

On minimum wage

For making some cash

As you hit the front page!

Cut off God’s thirteenth finger,
It brings the world bad luck.

At the supper of the twelve,
It traded life with a kiss on the cheek!
A tree held a rope for it,
So it could trade the life back!

Number thirteen of the twelve,
Died in a non-existent hotel room.

The dead speak tales of the one,
Who’s kiss killed the sun.
Blew out the world’s candle,
And slaughtered god’s cattle.
Loaded three long nights into a gun...
And pulled the trigger!

Breathing down my neck
like the truth ****** out from hotel hallways

tears fall by the window
out past the scaffolding of emotion below

a breath of lifeless air
as a boulder falls upon you, and crushes my being

the snap of my heart
when you say things are getting better

the hall's silence
as you see my broken eyes looking upon you

glares falling upon me
as i chose the wrong path yet cannot turn back

the truth becoming free
from the hotel hallway

out of the window
heat merged in white
and there’s nothing I want
the world to supply
or take from me now
I’ve opened my eyes

     she locks the door
     and knows the way she’s moving
     and we both know this is all
     that’s keeping us from leaving
     as we go down to the floor

           (now I see, as it gets dark
            and she’s away, I’m in the room,
            there’s nothing here of what was then
            except these facts I’ve placed in lines
            and keeping hold of what we’ve had; and her return
            and only that)

there’s nothing that I care for
but resumption of these feelings
and will throw the things I promised
far from any stretch of reason

and let them be discovered
by whoever wants to see them
burning
and broke open
as I listen to her breathing

Never more have I wished
     For paper thin walls

Plaster white only rivaled
     By your porcelain pale skin

If not only to serve
     As some grand, seeing canvas,

Littered with words of our
     Half drunken slurs

And cozy expressions of love
     In a night yearning to stretch longer,

For if those walls could tell the tales
     Of our exploits through and through,

I'd trace them up, cut them out,
     And frame my adoration for you.