At a shabby seaside hotel advertising "reasonable rates."
We are here, a few of us, for what we've done.
Most are here for what they have failed to do.
One man is here just for boring the living fuck out of everybody for decades.
The doors to our rooms each have one hundred knobs;
Only one works.
We go as numb as candidates, trying them all.
Here, are the 72 virgins the terrorists covet.
Stiff and blank as shirt cardboards, they are here for being dull, too.
For my own peculiar torture, there is the crack whore next door.
She can go smokin' through ten men or ten dollars in nothing flat,
And looks exactly like a messed-up 17-year-old version of my greatest love.
She does not bother to wash her hair, which would be glorious,
And I do not bother to hide my desire, despite her revolted scorn.
There are Christians here.
They are made to listen to the Bee Gees disco era hits 24/7,
And the noise of their suffering keeps us all awake every night.
And me?
I am here because of my hate.
I hate
I hate
I hate
Every man who ever touched you, or touches you still,
Because,
Waste offends me.
Women, well,
We are tarantulas, aren't we, godawful scheming banshees,
But I can fault no one for even the wildest sins
Begun with our kisses
And laughable promises.
It's you, of course,
I love with the last thorn fresh cutting of my heart.
Come to the beach.
Put the crack whore in her place.
Press your body and your impossible lips to mine.
Let the Hotel Of The Damned melt like whipping cream
In the foaming gray-green
Surf of a seaweed dream.
______
Bee Gees torture :)
ReplyDelete100 knobs. :)
All the rest, pretty darned writing.
xo
The guy being there for boring everyone. :)
ReplyDeletei absolutely ADORE this, Shay! from the concept through your amazing execution ~
ReplyDelete"Most are here for what they have failed to do."
i imagine that is only too true.
"The damned arrive on a repainted school bus
At a shabby seaside hotel advertising 'reasonable rates'." sounds just like a trip to Mexico i took "off-season." {smile}
what a glorious way to end and/or start my day. {i've gotta quit falling asleep sitting up at the keyboard.} ♥ d
yep, i caught your barb at me there at the end of the first stanza...i am not boring shay...i cant believe you would say that...grins
ReplyDeletethe bee gees...good lord...stiff card board virgins do not sound like fun...i am not converting....
rather like the sin-sualness of the finale...and the middle finger to the forces of nature...they probably have little bugs crawling all in the sheets at that hotel any way...
by the way, no matter the order you try them in it will be the next to last doorknob....
Ahh.. I just love how you spin a tale.. what a way to tell someone you love them, by describing the hotel of the damned existence life is without them. Exceptional. Original. Passionate.
ReplyDeleteYou are the only one I know who can put painfully hilarious images, satire, irony, lust, despair and hate together, and end up with a love poem. This is hardcore Fireblossom, and for me, that's the best there is.
ReplyDeleteWhat Hedgewitch said. Exactly. Your writing is the best there is. This is such a wonderful read. And what a GLORIOUS love poem. Sigh. The Hotel of the Damned. Sometimes it feels like I live there, cackling:)
ReplyDeleteThis is breathtaking in its intensity. Amazing, Shay.
ReplyDeleteWhat a fantastic tale! Sounds like a hotel we stayed at in Ocean City in 1982! Had to hang our wet beach towels over the windows because they had no curtains!
ReplyDeleteDamn, that was wonderful. Awesome rhythm.
ReplyDeleteKind of a modern version of Dante's Inferno.
ReplyDeleteBut a lot more barbed...
You are amazing, so glad you didn't give up, this voice needs to be out there, your not afraid to express it and I just love you for that.
ReplyDeleteDo you think there's any possibility that the bus will come through my neighborhood? There's a few people I'd love to drop off at the stop :)
ReplyDelete"Most are here for what they have failed to do."
ReplyDeleteWell. Glad it's not just me, then.
On a tangential note ...
A lot of my favorite art, regardless of form, is the kind that make me think, "Yeah, me too." Or even better, "Wait. It isn't just me?"
There ought to be a word for that. The realization that it's not just you. And another word for the art that makes you realize it.
Come to think of it, I could get a whole blog post out of my last comment. Would you mind if I quote the first couple stanzas of this poem for the post?
ReplyDelete