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Razor tucked in the fixture
base

That and the dull-fluorescent-light
stare me
Dead
in the face

Was it put there just in case?
How did they know to find me here?
In this place?

I guess
it's just another convenience
in another
mini-life-space

Little shampoo for your hair
Little soap for your hands
Little lotion for your skin
Little blade for your sins

and a sink in which to
Erase

All just such
a
convenient
little
Waste
der kuss Aug 16
but no darling,
motels get me down and i don't want to shed tears
behind the walls on clean sheets slept on by many,
you don't want to hear my heart creaking,
and you certainly don't want to understand it
island poet Jul 5
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not

~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~


the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
he/she has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living  existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent  or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.

Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.

thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.

Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.

The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis”  which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
^ Motel, (pronounced as Muttle, as in Motel the Tailor from Fiddler o the Roof,
so named because of his mottled fur and markings
Berry Blue Apr 14
meet me by the motel
by the Nobel boulevard
we don’t have to tell
no more being apart

meet me by the motel
by the Nobel boulevard
with the casted spell
we don’t got no regards

so tell everybody
we hit  the reject
we ain’t sorry
they gotta respect
basil Mar 7
i wanted you to be
my home
turns out i was just
your cheap motel
if you're reading this... remember that you have some say in who breaks your heart.

and have a good breakfast <3
𝓛𝓐 Nov 2019
“Here”, she said
“Take my heart”,
swallowing her pride.
“Take it, all of it.”
because it no longer belongs to its owner
someone else is paying the rent now
it became a motel for the lonely souls
a refuge
strangers come and go
stepping on it
as if it were a doormat.
You charmed me
Seduced me
Eve
N
Ent
Chanted you
Kept me up for
A
Starry, Starry
Night
I sound like I'm
Stuck at
SAINT MOTEL


https://open.spotify.com/track/1pu4luiWwVAcJRoCuqJfWg?si=ozfadSkMQv2uhTaxyIX-Ng


I don't mean to be all
Preachy
But
Bumblebee Is Real
...
Bzzhttps://open.spotify.com/track/7qdgz117gc5StS0u2ViinE?si=v-8bBhB9QKK4cWYmju0C_Q..
Paul Mar 2019
Over the bed a ceiling fan turns
elliptically,  pushing the hot air back
onto a lone smoker from whose
yellowed fingers snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco loops,
widens and merges with air. She has gone
back to the world from which they’d come
and now finds himself in an aftermath,
a denouement of a minor character in a hero-free
subplot. Shaken by his new status he turns
on the rumpled mattress, stubs out his smoke
and tries to think of what comes next. Instead
he sees the sheets strewn about his ankles and warms
recalling  how they'd named this the cellmate’s noose,
the way they roped around his legs during
their amorous thrashings. Funny because
she'd done time, for years. And it showed,
how she assumed her role in the act,
face to the wall, *** up with jailbreak intensity.

He lit another smoke, inhaled, and a ring
of orange fire bloomed like some brief
proclamation of love or plenty and other
such myths. A short, bright clarion call
of a thought that stoops as soon as it stands.
He exhales. The open window frames a field
of blue emptiness from which frayed curtains,
threadbare as cobweb, flap and seize the air
with sudden and passing cloud like forms,
pleasurably meaningless, and under which,
in a shadowless heat, a dog, limp with thirst,
laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
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