Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay

Somewhere in the Motel

The unwinding stoop below
is a breather earned
behind the shrine of the inebriated
is where sinners dwell.

Two hours after 17:59 ― Guinness o’clock,
A sentry of coloured lights stand guard
over dark alleys where names are excuses
and haggling is grievous as window-shopping.

Somewhere in the motel
embalmed corpses are solicited
and a cheap stink rendered in service,

Clothes are offered as victuals,
Square pegs fitted into round holes
before semen is shed ―
a futile appeasement.

Somewhere in the motel
Reciprocals greet and subliminals respond
In nymphs clothed in freckled scales
blessed with the knack.

Their famous prescription:
When I go see you again?

March

Sometimes, last month
I’d planned
one verse per itch,
Some word for every moment
Of febrility that chills the bones.
But nothing ever works off on a queue
Hustle and bustle found a recipe in my restive.

In a rush of blood to the head,
The hourglass poured with trickling seconds
Days swept by,
Weeks rolled over
Until I fell off the other side of the mattress
From where I’m used to peeping at the aces
In this vanity card game.

Loni Rae is an artist, he lives in Rome. He observes concurrent minutes of silence on his Twitter handle @_dzilas.

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