"concierge" poems
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
the concierge of dystopia fnording *******
messing around with the octopus
cyberpunk nightmare with blue sky
expect a deluge and then wonder what happened to it
evaporated anxiety due for a downpour
catacombs rented by the hour
she typically cares about those
who don't care about her
abandoning me without consequence
don't ever come back
ungrateful swine of nowhere!
loyalty exists only in a parallel universe
where they locked themselves up
and destroyed the key
they feed the rich and ignore the poor
in the end the strugglers will prevail
and the ones who had it easy will suffer
game shows that punish the ignorant
rage that never ends
scoring infinite points in basketball
and still losing the game
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.
4.7k
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building —
two blocks over from The Vermont
awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue.
I was drunk,
or, there-abouts.
Isobel was coming.
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building,
pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears;
it was November and the concierge came out to ask me
if I’d like to come inside and wait —
“No, I’m good, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
What was two blocks?
I pull out my cellphone —
“Where are you?”
“My mom’s drunk.”
Code for: “I’m playing therapist.”
I’m almost out —
out of brain cells (really?”
out of patience
out of love
out of “it”
out of time — but,
the curious thing is,
I’m never almost out of money.
I notice him when he stops on the step
I sit on.
He’s a sterling silver chain,
the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug.
He looks down at me, eyes
the colour of darkened ice,
not softened by the yellow lights
raining down from under the awning.
“Do you live here?”
“Where is “here”?”
He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.”
He’s beautiful,
the way a poppy is beautiful,
transparent,
saying so much with his flushed cheeks
and dark eyes,
so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead —
“Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse,
ouvert,
in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine.
He sits beside me, shoulder warm,
firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful —
I want to touch him,
brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding
from the briar, the thorny path —
not pick him, because he’s too beautiful,
too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; —
“Where do you live?”
He’s smoking like a flower.
I want to lie. I don’t.
“The Vermont.”
His expression doesn’t change,
remains soft, his eyes stay ice.
He looks away.
I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil,
I won’t be looking into ice,
no more mirror,
but, the sky after rain,
the soft fragrant grey,
so much light.
“What’s that? Two blocks?”
“Yeah.”
He rubs his face.
He has sensitive skin,
red upon contact with the cuff
of his wool coat.
“I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”
I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air
and vapour.
Out comes alcohol.
“You’re drunk?”
“I was.”
“Your laces are undone.”
“Are they?”
I look down at him,
he’s laughing,
lowering his head at my knees
and I feel something despite myself —
warmth in my chest,
accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen,
tensing.
“I’ll fix them.”
I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat,
and I imagine him higher,
on his knees and,
a little higher,
stop myself with:
“I’m not a child.”
He stops — I stop him.
He looks up;
his lashes are like glass.
“I want to kiss you.”
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
within a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
with a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance
within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -
for birthing me
questioning if it was the right decision
if I was born to suffer
this fate
so i wake in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge
to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow
out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you piece of ****
you **** up at everything"
it's difficult to look it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.
My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up
strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
There's something nostalgic about
The smell of
Cigarettes in the rain.
I am reminded of
Nights bleeding over into
The morning
Inhaling whiskey
and
Exhaling nicotine
Bonfires on the beach
Only...
I've wandered away from
The fire
My feet sinking deeper
Into dark, cold sand
The cool water only slightly
Tickling my toes
I think of
Waking up
In unknown houses
Unknown apartments
Unknown beds
With
Unknown people
Trying to recount
What just transpired.
I recollect
Faces that have
Come and gone
Dancing
and
Laughing
About what?
I couldn't tell you.
In the midst of it all
I feel
An emptiness
A hole
Pain and
Also nothing.
I feel nothing.
Yet still
Years later
A 3 AM hotel concierge
Reeking of cigarettes in the rain
Can bring it all back
Whiskey
Bonfires
Cold feet
Blurred friends(?)
Laughing and
Hopelessness.
Course smoke in a downpour
Nicotine in the mist
How could I ever miss a feeling like this?
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
She sits on the chair
her wavy hair
still neatly in place
putting on her stockings
as he stands
with his back
to the window
gazing at her
she pauses
her fingers holding
the stocking tops
and looks at him
and says
in her sluttish French
do you want me
back tomorrow?
there is a draught
from the window
touching his naked back
sending a shiver
along his spine
sure
he says
but make it a little later
the wife’s got
a show to see
and she doesn’t leave
till just after 8
ok
she says
pulling up
the stocking
and fixing it
to the clip
shall I bring anything
with me?
no just yourself
he says
and maybe wear
that tight skirt
and creamy blouse
and those black stockings
she stands
and pulls down
her slip
to cover
her underwear
and looks around
for her dress
look
he says beware
of the concierge
she’s a nosey old biddy?
she asks
biddy what is that?
just be careful of her
he says
don’t let her
see you leave
or she’ll tell
the wife
oh I see
sure I will be careful
of the biddy
she says
picking up her dress
from the chair
by the bed
and as she turns away
he studies
her neat ***
the way she climbs
into the dress
her hands so quick
in movement
the finger so precise
like those of a pickpocket
and he sees her leg rise
the stockinged leg
the fineness of the thigh
then she turns toward him
and she smiles
and she starts
on the other leg
and he wonders
what his wife would say
if she came in now
how’d she’d look
then it’s over
the dame’s dressed
puts on her coat
and picks up her bag
and takes the money
he’d put on the desk
and shoves it
into the bag
and sighs
and leaves
and as she goes out
the door
waggling her ***
he knows
he wants her back
some more.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
There’s a place up the avenue
Where lovers come to fail
Look at each other with dispute
And hate is all they feel.
When they check in they always say
“I tried so hard, where do I sign my name.”
They always complain about the investment they have made
Does the room, have a place to change?
The credit card’s declined
The Hotel never seems to mind
The key is in the shape of a broken arrow
right to the heart.
The desk clerk smirks
Gets your name exactly right,
Even though you’ve never met
until this night.
The concierge will give you directions to the local graveyards
The bell hop only dances and never says a word
When you give him a tip, he’ll only throw out your words
The elevator only goes down
The only music heard is the sound
Of a solitary heart beating in rhyme
Singing the song
“You will never be mine”.
The hall way corridor goes on forever backwards in time
The lonesome sounds of whales singing
Echoes through the halls, coming through the walls
And from beneath every door.
The rooms offer amenities
The devil dancing in the pain
On the head of a pin
The walls have one function
That’s to close on in.
The ribbon of blood
That seeps through the mirror
Dances in inkblots all the way
To the sink
Which drips tears of
Frustration
Resignation
Isolation
Recriminations.
The bathtub waters
Only run too hot
or
Too cold.
There is a bed of nails
Inviting ruminations
The images of her with him
Him with her
Strobes on the ceiling in endless loops
Of anguish’s fatal tunes.
Room service offers a variety of suicide utensils
The mini-bar contains a row of empty bottles
and a syringe without a needle.
The garbage men are always out side
Garbage cans crashing through the endless night sky
The windows open to brick walls
While couples in bliss dance cheek to cheek
In the bar across the street
Sometimes they look up at you and smile
That smile.
This nightly room has become a weekly
The weekly a monthly
And if you are not careful
Stay too long
Once you check in
The check out will always be closed
At the Hotel Heartbreak
Just down the road.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
I once checked into an old hotel
that’s served guests for many a year.
The white-clad staff will serve you well
and greet you brimming with cheer.
Its handsome brick and stone façade
shines gold in the bright morning sun.
Inside, the red velvet furnishings’ a nod
to the lovers’ tall tales there spun.
The rooms are filled with patchouli scent,
or perhaps with a strong note of musk.
At first you’ll easily make the rent
and stay there from dawn until dusk.
Oh, how well could I in that chamber sleep
on starry fields of Elysium each night,
my baggage packed in cotton I’d keep
to stow it from whatever gave fright.
But the longer this hospitality I had
the more a locked hospital it became;
the doors that’d welcomed this young lad
soon rusted, harder to open again.
I chatted with the friendly concierge
and noticed the crease of his smile
was curled into the quirk of a sneer
while his light humor shifted to bile.
The mattress that once was thick and soft
grew coarse and lumpy with age
while the vistas seen from the gilded loft
were obscured by the bars of a cage.
The red velvet’s colors began to bleed.
All was gilded with the gold of fools.
Once this hotel had for me filled a need —
but it sought to make me its ghoul.
This hostel had to hostile turned,
its host was revealed as a warden.
With time I learned its charms to spurn
and escape to a greener garden.
Even now that hooking hotel calls,
a sultry siren who woefully wails
and summons her guests — or thralls? —
to deep sleep in her heavenly jail.
Nov 15, 2024
Nov 15, 2024 at 4:53 AM UTC
The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air,
Meshing with the scent of a stale motel.
The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds.
The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped,
Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents,
Who care little for the subpar shielding,
Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation.
The outside, which was once filled with children
Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life,
Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis.
Behind the front desk stands the concierge-
As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and
Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving.
"He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself"
Residents were once told.
Now he stands grey and hunched,
As his residents lay sedated and soft.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
The iron bedstead creaked and the buckets underneath the leaks up in the ceiling gave us a feeling, of being on a movie set,
the flicker of light from the candle,waxed magnificent across the film of grime,a window to another time,a line up in the make up shed,the freshly made up bed,everybody said,
'down in the Hacienda where the cockroaches defend ya, against the desert rats,where nocturnal bats then eat the desert rats,you'll feel at home,
No coffee bar,no public phone,no concierge,you're all alone and feeling tender and that is life down in the Hacienda.
We took a walk through tumbleweeds and in this town that leads us to despair,we found we did not care,we two, were already there,at the end,where cockroaches could not defend against the things that lived within,the sin that kept us pinned against the ropes,the hope we had against all hopes that somehow we'd escape,be free,could settle in obscurity.
This Hacienda is the place where you must meet your demons face to face,unearth the things you'd rather not,
down in the Hacienda is where we learnt a lot,stopped the rot,oiled the bed,noted what was said,
but it's hardly worth it going to, the Hacienda just to view,you have to go and do,to see and be the changes that are made,
and as the Hacienda fades into another scene and plays into another screen,I lean across to her to share a kiss.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Spent time with a new friend today
I asked her if I could help
This is what she had to say
"Why yes Dear, take me over to the concierge desk
I just arrived here to stay"
I pushed her wheelchair over to the nurses station
Where her finger pointed me to go, as we headed that direction
She told me she heard this was a four star Hotel
She needed to get her suite number to know
Her spirit was exuberant
Full of delight
It made my mind wander
Perhaps God invented Alzheimer's
To protect our minds from fright
I remember my Papa
How towards the end He would forget that he was in pain
It was quite a blessing
To be "insane"
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
The Bronte Manor is for the timid possum of this world.
Not the classic women its name invokes,
A hotel for those who play dead.
Men cast out from homes or never reeled into them, in the first place.
At night, the marquee flashes r nt Ma o
Empty beer bottles collect outside the front door,
A crystal chandelier lays heavy on the carpet of the foyer.
The concierge long ago replaced by a night-keeper,
Who makes his living crossing out the days of men and
Keeping his blinders on to miss the man slumped over
On a couch of cotton candy purple, once the color of royalty.
With its back turned towards the plate glass window,
Cracked,
Split,
Covered in spit.
A lanky old man slinks sidelong through the crooked doorframe,
eyes heavy, unfocused.
He misses the wraith of his nameless neighbor, shadow by.
A body that has nested in the room next to his
for three thread-bare years.
They rent by the week,
but monthly at a discount, when they have it.
The silence lingers
broken only by the rattling of solitary doorknobs
and dead-bolts.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
Fortonuate palms skim the dogeared surface
Of the snakes and ladders without clear direction--
Hot tea and foggy glasses. Familiar lips
That look as young as ever when they smile.
Sun melting in the clouds like mollases
While the breeze lifts and plays with
Our clothes.
Hollow words served as concierge
For this used up body-- orbs and a silhouette,
That's all you get as it's all I was perceived as
And all I've left to give.
But here I don't have any will to offer.
I've gave you everything and how peaceful
It is to be contempt replaying another day.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 7:41 PM UTC
There was a time when your arms were my home.
The length of your biceps were the halls I once walked and the crook of your elbow the place I once laid my head at night.
The scar from the time you fell from the mango tree, three inches above your right wrist, was the portrait that hung above my bed.
There was a time the fluttering of your eyelids were the opening of the golden tapestries that hung above the windows of my soul.
Your very essence the blue prints to the yard where my lavender and forget-me-not once grew.
There was a time your words and your promises were my prayers.
The sound of you breathing at night was my pulse.
Your "I love you's," once my "Amen's," are now a strange language spoken in twisted and heavy tongues with forced vowels and foreign consonants.
Spoken by the concierge in a lovely resort I would love to call mine, I am but a visitor in a place I once called home.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Students everywhere feel a close relationship with summer. It develops early and you never lose it. It’s durable.
Let's poeticize..
It was a youthful summer of unblemished mirth.
In play, our youthful hours were freely spent.
We bore such idleness - we were indulgent.
Until Lisa confessed she was less so content
and longed desperately for a ‘wholesome reunion’
with her love (Dave) and to resume that courtship in the same
fevered spirit as when they last parted, in Paris.
“Life’s complicated,” Lisa offered, at the end of our talk.
“So complicated,” I agreed.
It’s amazing how quickly a plan can coalesce.
ANNND, we’re back in Manhattan, at Lisa’s (parents) 50th floor residence.
I asked Karen (Lisa’s Mom) once, “If you own this (a floor of a building) is it called an apartment, a condominium..,” my voice faded on the question.
“A residence,” she answered after a moment’s thought. She’s a lawyer.
Georgia got too hot. Not to dwell on the grotesque side of girlhood - but enough sweat already.
Shakespeare (Henry IV) wrote, “sweat extraordinarily, if it be a hot day.” Yep, done that - for really.
In lieu of all our pains, we now want AC, high-end amenities, constant concierge services and stunning views.
We’ll be back in New Haven in nine short days - and back in class in eighteen.
Call 911, someone’s stolen our summer!
.
.
Songs for this:
New York City Serenade by Bruce Springsteen
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel
Aug 10, 2024
Aug 10, 2024 at 10:31 PM UTC
A Baby comes into the world
In a warm blood of thick mortality
The concierge of Devil's property
Satan with no chill out of snowy hell cries
Pay your rent to have a peaceful Earth
the very day baby takes in air
I know you want to live in a womb forever
You need to know the hope you bring
To the one who carry you in a 9malt of labour
So be strong to end an unending race little one
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.
This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.
Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.
Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.
Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.
When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence
Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
.
Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
.
A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 8:11 AM UTC
It's 10 am and I have already said over a hundred good mornings,
And I will say a couple more before they turn into good afternoons
And then into good nights,
I say them to a lot of people most of whom barely say them back,
Heck am lucky if they even try to make eye contact,
I understand,
They are probably having a bad morning,
Or they having a long day,
Or they have been sitting for hours in rush hour traffic,
But mostly they just look sad, a couple of them need to lose some fat,
I watch as they struggle to ark their lips into a smile,
And the dark glasses they wear to hide the windows to their souls,
I see them as they quickly walk on by,
Always in a hurry! Am sure some wish they could fly,
Some look like they have already tried, others like they are just about to die,
Some are always chasing after their puppies,
One of them actually has husky,
That he calls dusty, Or maybe he told me rusty,
Shouldn't matter its still a husky,
His furry best friend, wait a minute I think he told me his name is Charlie!
One of them did talk to me this morning,
I had to step back since his breathe still had the smell of whiskey,
I check the clock, its still morning,
But I understand, I heard him and his wife fight this morning!
About how she was looking at guys in the gym or something,
"My life really ***** he tells me, "My wife is going back to her ex"
"But still wants me to pay for her frozen eggs, and be her best friend"
When did this even become a trend, frozen eggs and being best buds with your ex?
I feel his sadness as he tries to accept his sudden life events,
I want to say this things happens that maybe its for the best,
But I just look at him and nod my head,
Because deep down all we need is a friend.
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 2:32 PM UTC
Aah! look at your Majestic Mind,
The source of your Pride,
The concierge of your Dreams,
Your Mistress since Childhood;
Lo! see its Beauty in Naked,
In all the Material,
In all the Moral,
Yes!!! that's your Marker as a Human;
Bravo!!! of the pure genius in you,
You finally made out your identity,
creating a marker of self;
from the Oozy ****** miracle;
Alas, little did you comprehend,
the Irony underlying all of this,
For the judgement comes from the Ugly ooze,
with the verdict Never to underestimate Humanity's stupidity;
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
C'était en octobre, un dimanche,
Je revenais de déjeuner ;
Vous jouiez au lit, toute blanche,
Vos cartes dans votre main... franche,
Qui commence à les retourner.
Vous faisiez une réussite ;
Est-ce pour voir si je t'aimais ?
Est-ce la grande, ou la petite ?...
Vous avez dit haut, pas très vite :
« Les cartes ne mentent jamais ».
Au fait, pourquoi mentiraient-elles ?
Elles n'ont aucune raison,
Vous me faisiez des peurs mortelles,
Et... fixant sur moi vos prunelles :
« Une femme dans la maison. »
C'était vrai de vrai, tout de même !
Je ne dis rien et me tins coi.
Mais je dus paraître... un peu blême.
C'était une femme que j'aime,
Je ne veux pas dire pourquoi.
Puis vous parlâtes de concierge,
Car vous voyiez mon embarras.
Ah ! je vous dois un fameux cierge !
Bien que l'autre soit encor vierge
De l'enlacement de mes bras.
J'aime tout autant vous le dire
Et jeter ma faute au panier,
Belle sorcière... de Shakespeare :
La vérité, c'est ton empire,
Je n'essayerai pas de nier.
Il me faudrait faire un mensonge,
Ce qui te déplaît tellement
Que j'en frémis lorsque j'y songe...
Le temps a passé son éponge
Délicate sur ce moment.
Ah ! si ce n'était qu'une femme !
Si ce n'était qu'une maison !
Mais j'aime avec la même flamme
Et la demoiselle et la dame
Sur tous les points de l'horizon.
Toujours à la piste, aux écoutes,
Au guet, partout, sans respirer,
Je les suis, sur toutes les routes.
Si je ne les désirais toutes,
Je ne saurais vous adorer !
Oui, quand ainsi j'ai vu la femme
Pour toutes sortes de raisons...
Et je ris bien au fond de l'âme,
Nous avons à Paris, Madame,
Tant de femmes dans les maisons !
472
Where is that daunting monster
Boogie man in life’s shadow
Master mentor and concierge
Whose touch I’ve come to know
To you I’ll waste no breath
Beauty is not long and septic
My daunting docent of death
Midwife to misery, work quick
What small dignities remain
Strung of vomiting seconds
Cultures a pearl of great pain
To ferry a man of no direction
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
The sky looked shattered from up above
yet here I stand with suitcases in both hands
checking in a room as my fate was planned.
The lobby gleamed in gold and rust
a final shrine to times long past
the chandeliers still softly shimmer
yet the outside world was already gone
the concierge with siren eyes
whispered “enjoy your time”
with a crooked smile.
A penthouse suite with a view so narrow
of oceans boiling acid and stars that died.
The diner was fully stocked
as time itself unlocked
a toast to my humble life
a toast to death dressed in a fancy attire
with a small sip to catch my final breath.
The rooftop pool resembled a lagoon
reflecting ember-colored light
across from the pool a choir sang
their melodic notes sang off-key
a waltz song for letting go.
I watched from my concrete hotel bed
as the clock runs out with the sky turned
the end had come and yet here I lay
a special guest of doomsday
my one final stay
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 10:36 AM UTC
You see when I think about you, hands of times run true.Because, you see when I think about you I forget a little bit about me. I've never liked me, so when I found you, it was something to latch on too . It ain't fair I know. You only saw what I showed,even believed what I sold but Sometimes buying tickets from the concierge don't get you into the show
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
Outside, cars drive by
Revving their engines
Tyres heaving and sighing
Cicadas chirping a rhythmic tick in the park
Crickets nearby, abuzz, filling the sound
The Botanical Gardens lures the suntanned and glistened
It is humid! So I’m told
I sit at my desk. The helm of this wonderful building
Residents drift in and out past me
Offering sweet smiles and gestures
Ibis visit, picking out the bugs of the terracotta façade
Two Indian Myna Birds build a nest in the canopy
I am mesmerised
A rainbow light streams in across a beautiful artwork
Did Mr Piano know that that this light beam would cut across the lobby for me to see?
The keys are in order and checks done. Mr Reed got his paper.
The building sits solid as the seasons pass.
Breathing calmly as it’s heart beats for a very long time.
May 26, 2024
May 26, 2024 at 11:59 PM UTC