Bad Motel

Sulking,

Like a wronged child -

I sit in a pool of red.

I had not before heard the words

Being spoken on the wireless -

An afternoon play to see out these final

Minutes, interminable to the end.

The metronome voices

And guillotine script would quicker kill

Those weaker than me.

 

The room I am in is dipped in orange.

A picture of a red toad in a red waistcoat

Hangs somewhat apt I think, over the bed.

The bed is plaid blanketed,

The type under which I have seen elderly legs nestling.

 

My body is chocked with ice cubes -

And as the trickles tickle and ease the

Smart of my last untimely scourge,

Those neat binary openings -

This most beautiful of suicides.

I clock that I cannot hear out of my left ear.

Dry earth, I think it is - in there,

Or perhaps burst vessels like those seen after retching (on a vodka rampage)

Not the slow collapse of senses I always

Took for granted.

 

My eyes feel like boiled sweets

That are being sucked so hard

The mouth, whatever mouth, is raw.

 

The curtains in here are blue

With dirty white roses

Interweaved - looks like matted hair.

The carpet, um, this carpet

Needs scrubbing,

Yellow, pink, and purple swirls on a

Thin, stained, stone slab.

I recall when I was young

Dropping a bottle of milk onto our

Hallway rug.

It was green,

And as the milk soaked in

I thought it must have been sour -

The milk I mean, the color it was

A greenish cream gloop.

 

Lying here in this motel

I know the truth of it. That everything is sour -

And I am more than halfway to my mother.

Reviews

[Kristallo]

That last stanza... wow. Came back for another read through, I like the changes. This one is among my favorites of yours. It curdles the soul.

[Robert Lincoln]

This poem is saturated with colors, tones, textures, sounds, silences, remembrances, etc. - and in a good way.
It's not a poem to be microwaved by readers, but slow-simmered to bring out all the nuances.
And the final three lines are stunning.

[Rosalind Gale]

Thanks Robert -
-x-

[Ruth]

Superb! Your work has an essence of the classic writers I enjoy:) A language and voice of its own, if that makes sense...
I find your work thrilling and also mesmerising in its depths!
xoxo

[Rosalind Gale]

Huge love to you Poppy -
-xxxx-

[Ruth]

And you sweety xo

[Pax]

very vivid used of imagery, i liked it...Bravo!

[Renée]

Very descriptive ! i could almost smell the milk on the carpet..heavy piece you wrote..

[Rosalind Gale]

Thanks a lot - it means a lot to me.
-xx-

[emmy bon]

yap, nice one you got, nice imagination, keep writing.

[Kristallo]

Lying here in this motel
I know the truth of it. That everything is sour -
And I am more than halfway to my mother.

I can hardly describe why this one so daunted and enraptured me in its deep and wicked cadence. The imagery is fantastic, so.. baroque.. you make the filth of emotional entropy an almost regal thing, you make it glorious, and so vividly inspiring. I love the depression you express here, with such skillful ambivalence. There are so many fantastic lines for me to marvel at, this one being a personal favorite:

My eyes feel like boiled sweets
That are being sucked so hard
The mouth, whatever mouth, is raw.

You are a gift, and I love to unwrap your writings. So well done, Rosa. I loved this.

[Rosalind Gale]

Thank you my dear Kris -
-xx-

[Rosalind Gale]

Hugs -
-xxxxxxxxxxx-

[Kristallo]

Thank you for being an unfailingly inspiring muse, and for making me feel like maybe i'm not alone in my thoughts and feelings- there are others out there, somewhere. Lying in bad motels, wondering why everything has become so damned sour.

[Rosalind Gale]

-xxxxxxxxxxxx-

[That_Girl]

Wow... that's some damn fine imagery you have there... beautiful.

[Rosalind Gale]

Thanks!
-x-

[Mickey Hilts]

This is incredible, everything is here, story, images, scenes, sadness, odd humor and a tragic final line, you're a magical writer.

[Dean]

Highly original writing! Enjoyed

[Rosalind Gale]

Thank you Dean
-x-