"Wrapping themselves around my brain, a hotel nest for birds,"
Tyler Loeslein 

When I don’t have a camera, all that’s left are words,
Wrapping themselves around my brain, a hotel nest for birds,
The rooms inside are all filled up, booked with imagery,
Keys for beds are handed out, the visuals are free,
To float around my nest like brain, a cornucopia of sorts,
See words and pictures go along, like well rehearsed cohorts.

So since a photo isn’t an option, my goal then is to write,
Describing to my audience how imagination takes flight,
I’m watching my youngest brother shout and leap around,
Diving behind a couch turned trench, praying to not be found,
By his imaginary enemies, carrying imaginary guns,
And on his face Is realistic fear, though I know he’s having fun.

But listen while I go deeper, into more detail,
About his determined self pep talk, vowing not to fail,
And though I can’t really see, what he grips so tight,
His tiny, cenched fists tell a story, about his best friend in this fight,
In reality he’s wearing jeans, but to him it’s camouflage,
And when silent sirens scream nuclear warnings, he sprints to the garage,

As I sit and watch him flee, commanding his faux friends,
I hope that even when he grows up, his imagination never ends.

"found in hotel drawers,"
Tim Knight 

Goliath:
You buy your love with bourbon creams,
cans of beans and full cupboard brims;
steal clothes to hide a torso of lies
twist that in with teaspoon brown eyes,
deeper than any holy bible’s spine:
found in hotel drawers,
away from the preachy, needy, cast iron shrine.

David:
Whilst the girl you’re with has nothing to give,
no family member nor money splendour,
you battle on with the train rides
cross country,
cross country train track guides.
Audiobook it; listen to it; learn it and write it,
write the letter she deserves, explaining
the ins and outs of your hidden nerves:
the nerves entitled ‘I don’t love you anymore’


My first poetry pamphlet, 'Homeland & Borderland' is still available to buy for only 3.00 GBP with free P+P to anywhere in the world. Both handmade and self published>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/it-is-here-homeland-border­land.html

"back to her hotel room, complimentary towels, free shampo"
Tim Knight 

Loaded dice love affairs
with snake eyed girl, downstairs
on chance, is multiplying on chance:
roll, bet, blackout, squeeze and a dance
with the winner.
He’s tall, with a
casino shirt and a seven card suit.
Linked up to the left arm of him is
8 ball eyed girl. She potted her way ‘round the table,
blonde haired wisps of hair
occasionally covering her view.

And now snake eyes is no longer new.
She left with haste, a wind a scent following her tail,
back to her hotel room, complimentary towels, free shampoo.





**Check out the blog for poems and pamphlets>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/

"thought up in hotel lobbies"
Tim Knight 

We left the Summer too long,
that is ran off and absconded,
turned to Autumn,
made blue skies red.

I got told that
there’s a girl for every thought,
by a man with brown eyes.
He took a train South at
nine fifteen with a bought
bag of lies tucked between forearm
and chest; below the neck but still high enough.

Hide behind new names
devised by haircut disasters and
rum, gin and past-their-sell-by-date jokes,
thought up in hotel lobbies
in front of a front desk clerk,
oblivious to everything but hotel work.

"In her hotel room."
Higgs 

She could hear them cheering.
It was a big crowd
And they had enjoyed her performance so far.

But now she was at the moment she always dreaded.
About to go back on stage.

If she'd known, back then
How successful that track was going to be
She would never had recorded it.

The strange thing is
Nobody had paid too much attention to it
In the studio.
It was originally released as a B-side.

But once it started getting airplay
It took on a life of its own.

Unlike the A-side, it was something she had written herself
When she was 20.

It was beautiful.
Played the whole world over.
Particularly at weddings.

And yet
She hated it.
If it was up to her
She'd never sing it again.

Why?

Well, it wasn't just for the usual reasons.

All artists can get bored of a hit
Which takes over their lives.

And they can start to resent an audience
Which isn't interested in new material
But reserves its loudest applause
For the encore.
The favourite song.

But she had other reasons.
She'd never told anyone what the lyrics were really about.
They were deliberately ambiguous.
People thought they understood them
But they didn't.

How many more times could she sing those words?

Everybody loved the way
She appeared to cry
When she got to that line.
How did she do it?

If only they knew.

She took a deep breath
And walked back on stage
Towards the microphone.


It was her final performance.
They found her the following morning.
In her hotel room.

In one hand was a bottle of pills.

And in the other
Was an old photograph

The last one ever taken
Of her baby.

"You continue to sit in that hotel room,"
Birdy Thyne 

Anticipating the anticipation,
Anticipating the living-life-on-the-edge days.
The ones you hear about
Or you think you've heard about.

You, you've fallen into monotony,
An inescapable feeling of restless contentment.

Some call it depression,
You call it boredom.
They're one in the same,
Except boredom has a much less negative connotation;
And a much shorter life-span.

Mostly, it depends on your age;
The children are bored,
The adults are depressed.

Filling days with self-innovated anxiety,
The kind that didn't always exist,
Or you don't think it always existed.

A drive to be taken by storm
Overwhelmed.
Engulfed.
Something to shake you out of this trance you have been stifled by.

Like a visitor from afar,
You continue to sit in that hotel room,
Anticipating the anticipation of travel.

While you glance
Between the alarm clock,
The room service menu,
The T.V. Guide.

Bored.
Depressed.
Anticipating the anticipation of living.

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