Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Paul Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. Anxieties, post-****** and solitary are,
by the lungful, archived on the yellowed walls.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue smoke
of burning tobacco describes tumult. She
has gone back into the world.  Laying
in the mise en scène of their aftermath
he smokes like a figure growing distant
in a cinematic moment purged of heroism.
The worn sheets, roped about his ankles, recall
an inmate’s noose. She'd been inside. For years.
The way she assumed her role, face to the wall,
silent as though it were a meal to be had frankly,
was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable.
He drew deeply, and a ring of orange fire
bloomed, briefly proclaiming love remained
a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed from the room
into the parking lot like some great tongue,
wild and mute. And under the window,
in the shadowless heat, a dog, limp with thirst,
laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
sage short Oct 2018
The divine almighty
of the crooked earth
made the weakened crawl
with dirt dragging into
our chipped fingernails
like the paint on our homes

Her flood of chaos ignited the flames
and her flames burnt down the only
hope we had: the sea
& her mighty craft
swept our flatlands into the ocean
like dirt under a rug
or ice under a fridge
and we were engulfed in the fire
that our own hands caused

She came down on us with her wrath
ripping herself apart in the process
just to show us she is the divine almighty
and then the moon betrayed us
followed by the sun

Checked out on us like a motel for drunk couples
Who turned off the lights to save the electricity
tamia Nov 2016
somewhere in hollywood along route 66
stood a cheap motel—
an asylum
for rockstars and their groupies,
artists and and poets and strangelings alike.
the morning only saw its residents,
drunken and drowsy,
and its black-tiled pools as dark as the night;
yet the nights were its prime
when the artists would gather
in the name of music, dance, recklessness.
the syringes would pierce their skin
and the alcohol like ocean waves
washed out the most of them,
and events too unspeakable were the norm.
the motel never attained 5-star ratings,
but it become the playground
for fleeting moments, wild nights,
brewing grounds for creation.
these nights were so loud and colorful,
but only remembered in hazy visions
and muffled sounds.

and so all those nights end here, today:
at the south of The Strip
where some modern, ordinary hotel now stands
once used to be the mess
that the likes of Jim Morrison
and Tom Waits called home.
its guests would have burnt it down,
but they would've wasted their money,
and who has the time anyway?

ladies and gentlemen, the tropicana motel
a stop over where
wild minds and wild hearts would meet
and eventually go their way,
the place where these legends
of music and madness
came to play.
a poem about "The Trop", a motel in LA where artists used to stay and meet during its hey-day in the 70's.
no Oct 2016
wounds get better but people won't
people hardly ever change. it's easy
to think of someone so outrageously
red as a saint and let them tell you
pretty words of gratitude as you nod and
cry softly into their hell of a heart

children walk about innocent and free
free of guilt and not full of accusations and
lies and people's hearts and minds and you
look at your hands and you scream, softly,

and we all walk out with our minds cut
like squares because it's bad to have a circle
mind or a triangle one too because it's not like
the people and here we present to the people:
the people. the same people who sleep next
door to you and breathe the same chemical components

we stayed up in motel rooms and our
nail clippings turned to dust in the ashtray
but we wouldn't stop, faces full of hope and
something undefinable, something infinite
a word i know hate because it describes something
that won't STOP. i don't want that STOP.
Maame Yebaoh Feb 2016
Oxblood lips. A slit in the center. A distraught film. Shattered pieces that mimic her wounds. She cries for sorrow and weeps in the name of agony. Flashback. High voltage. Dawn's dew left a Seoul night in the hands of mischief. He watched her golden legs in his dingy shirt. She danced in a tunnel of head lights. His eyes. Oh, God, his realm of roses. A spectrum so broad- no force could obtain. 70s misfit. Shaggy rugs. A cheap bottle of Merlot. Kaleidoscope kisses. Craved like a hieroglyphic. He was her warrior. Plummeting grains of virtue into a dust oriented dollars and thirty one cents. I saw the light bulb touch the birch-wood floral. I could feel a thick metallic wind roar. Breaking the depths. A rugged man with a festive beard. His cheeks of stained silicone lipstick. He had shipped off his soul. He was a white man with a grip of steel. "Who put cookies in the watering bucket?" A naive response. "A wicked man with a lustful cavity." Erosion.Despair.Angst. Thin braids housed a blooming mind. Paint chips splattered the table top, plastering it. Morning.Good morning to luxury. What a splendid contrast. A lantern lit van took the highway by 65 miles. And all the while he never looked back.
theboy May 2015
Bird Motel
never to settle
only a stop
on a journey

I hope you enjoy your stay
Brittle Bird Apr 2015
that night, I saw bodies in the motel bathtub
beckoning like a 50's Cadillac
back seat beats and Father's  
bottle of snatched brandy up
to bring back our youth

and stay
for one last whisper in a last-innocent ear
the diner lights buzzing like
a lifetime of loss to mistakes
that can be little more or
less than broken glass lies
Day 23 of NaPoWriMo.
Huddled in a cocoon of my own grime
Forlorn and wasted from my own trick
“She's hot,” she says from across the
Room filled with helium and gauze
You don't need words to make a statement
It's very difficult to be that *****
I suffer from delusions of
Illusions of grandeur
Pomp and circumstance
My theme song
I've graduated to this degree of decadence
Or is it dereliction?
I always get those two confused
Which is the one where
Ripple wine and crack *******
Are preferable to
Caviar and pink champagne?
No matter
I am equally distant from both
“Who does that,” she mutters
As she watches a
Woman in stilettos
Being urinated on by a
Hairy man on the *** channel
I sit with my ink pen and
Draw black eyes on the
Models in women's magazines
She turns to me
“Are you even listening?”
This pale, shelled out
Husk of a former woman asks
I'm listening
I retort within my own shackled mind
But if I pay attention
I just may **** us both
Rhet Toombs Jan 2015
I didn't know anything about a ******
I was called from sleep to be told your love had died
The lanes and lights passing you by
But your path never strayed
Your mind became lost
Because the enduring sounds of the waves
Kept you up at night
I'm still here
And now, a knock resonates at my motel door
Next page