In room 602, dreams slide through the gone days.
You can let them shuttle, like boats that cruise
without mooring. Place gets blown to the sky.
Then there's nowhere higher, and no way down:
so – wake up, or die? This hour must choose.
Better pause … and listen to the lower floors.
On the fifth, it’s cornets, applause, dark suits.
Rose-petals are scattered and plaudits galore –
but the bards rattle on like doors in a storm,
too dazed to inspire a 'Goodbye!'
In 404 a bruised soul mourns. You try;
you sympathize – but her owl's in your face,
her cries screw your bowels: you've got to get out –
but how? When beauty sours, the cure is power.
So cue some abuse and sound battle-horns!
A few brassy notes should rouse the hormones –
enough to get fighting ...! Then some pious bore
drones on about grace. Heard that one before?
The patter's so worn, even angels groan:
‘Praise? This priest’s just a clown!’
In the lounge, juiced by Chateau Margaux,
they peruse rates and loans with creamy smiles,
and sigh; then mutter into their glowing phones.
The deals are obscure: futures, cocaine?
Matters of state? Or whores? 'Working l8.'
is the line thrown home – ‘with luv’ … of course.
The hum? Cleaners natter over their chores,
as vacuums graze on the litter the dawn
can't ignore or erase: brown flowers, stale porn;
silences that wrap the alibis;
and stains where we clawed at each other.
The first floor: where raw reds ebb into blues ...
and letters: ' you need to apologize' –
so they’ll be mopping this maze forever.
Their streetwise chatter soothes the nests
among the neon tubes that are blazing out
our stuttering sign. Where Godz … Hot ...’,
or ‘… ill ... H...el' lights the town, small birds coo.
And in reception, where I prattled to guests,
how sublime were those tones —
as I smiled (all morning) or dealt out flattery.
(Or oozed excuses, laced with white lies.)
Now I'm portrayed – up there between Krishna
and Mao, fists full of glittering keys. Aach!
Hotels are phony — you're already a room.
You want home? Go explore your denial:
you crowd the corridors while bemoaning
the clutter — but who owns all this?
On what foundation? In the basement
the shutters draw back: there’s no ground.
Lights glaze, thoughts confuse; but the pure view
is unfettered: a knowing like space.
Which the gone days, like dreams, go sliding through.