The damned arrive on a repainted school bus
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.
I am here because of my hate.
Every man who ever touched you, or touches you still,
Waste offends me.
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.