THE NO TELL HOTEL
Has six floors, a broken neon tube sign
hanging down like a shattered soft on.
It used to read “A Place for Winners”
But from Room 666, I see the real sinners
Praying in midnight assignations
Praying in midnight assignations
For booze, drugs, sex,
self flagellating wrecks
Temporary desperate respite
from our lying dying nation.
Like all decaying empires,
no one gives a damn.
I leave my new girlfriend - my cum stained dirty sock-
On the double bed I slept single in last night
But the elevator doesn’t work
so I drift my debauchery crippled body
Down six flights of rickety stairs
Hope for heaven in a dive bar
But see only another urban hell.
When I walk down the street
People stop and stare
You think I might be thrilled
But I don’t care.
I need my morning medicine
Paper and a plastic hotel pen
To jot the works and days of my hands
That so few see or understand
My millionth urbane commentary
On our shitty unfair society
In the form of unread poetry
Purging these constant ranting thoughts
Like slack drawled drool from my mind
To something tangible and real.
How gossamer the paper.
How steady the clarity of my thoughts.
How predicable my instability.
I curve my face towards the pint glass
Swallow more healing relief
Slam some 101 proof Schnapps
It’s time for my afternoon Grandpa nap.
On my stumble back to my room
A feather suddenly appears in my path.
I reach down to pick it up as I often do
When a bypasser in a fancy silk business suit butts in:
“Don’t do that! It’s dirty”
“You’re dirty!” I scream back.
“You don’t even listen to the birds anymore!
They have messages but you’re deaf!”
“You’re crazy you bum”,
He spits in my face with undisguised disdain
Back in Room 666, my garment lover
Lies beneath an IPad looping porn.
I wish I’d never been born.
Then think of this life I would have lost,
How lasting memories cost.
Most may say I unforgivably wasted
Every precious moment I tasted,
All my talents and every value I’ve lost
Tossed into a stinking flea bag hotel room.
But to all judgmental hypocrites
We’re all full of shit
And when you reach the end
You’ll also end up in a tomb.
Hear more PoetKen Jones: https://soundcloud.com/poetken1980/the-ballad-of-george-floyd
See more PoetKen Jones: poetken.com
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