Motel Poems - Poems about Motel

Need a boss Need a jerk Need something to make your ass Get up and work I can inspire you for sure But I refuse to retire you I refuse now dont ask me how Dont ask me too many times I dont wanna change my mind But your so strong with my rhymes Yust just 3 times sicker than the rest Ill put...

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Time is vertical here, it travels red-eyed in elevators, it is an out of sequence conversation you have with an ice bucket it drops hair and lint into air-ducts, then spins them into dreams. In the morning, perched on a sagging bed, one sock in hand, drinking sour wine from a plastic cup, you close a suitcase that bulges from two-days' worth of motel-time. You wonder how to...

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in skimpy short shorts she marches into breakfast no eyes go up I had forgotten the immodesty of youth for two seconds it’s a public place another wears pajamas and bedroom slippers...

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motel lobby in arkansas close to the crystal bridges young man with tattoos walks to large creamer he begins to pump creamer into coffee sees me and indicates I go ahead of him. Ii shake my head ‘no” tell him to go ahead, he will be quicker than me two polite strangers making conversation in a motel lobby in arkansas I sit down to...

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Time here is measured by the lint-clogged resurrections of air-conditioners. All of us have had to learn to shout past our souls. Dulled minds are churned awake. Fractured nights slumber on beneath the rocky rumble of nearby ice-machines. The ‘Marigold’ is unmarried, divorced and abandoned, but for those still not seeking lonely there are midnight do-overs. Behind the days horizon a desert sky still thirsts in the mouths of discarded...

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My bus finally pulled in late you were there as promised although I tried not to notice the blonde bimbo adjusting her skirt a cross between pat benatar and Melanie griffith puffing on a stale Marlboro cigarette while painting lipstick on her collagen strickened pink lips just like you to be charmed to give...

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Sightseeing all day daybreak on the go travel just to lay my head...

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silver birch .. lining road …. ghost trees …. snow teeth .. mighty throat eerie lurch gaping mouth .. swallow cars … white lines … road signs .. battle scars deadly route winding neck .. asphalt beast … grab all … free fall .. metal feast longing break coming rain .. motel night … hum sound … calm down .. rested fright drive again Notes Syllabic verse poem, three syllables to AB, 2 syllables to CC, overall...

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With plates and words in anger flying My wife and I now deem it best To cease all our screaming and crying As I check into the Motel Goodrest I arrive and plop down for a blissful night But for two hours a car’s engine revs; varoom! Above me screeching shouts; a lover’s fight And the loud thumping of the bed in...

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He built motels across America loving the land so much he could sleep anywhere on her in her cheaply, predictably. Anywhere was home to him. Home was not special but same. Same bars of soap, same color wrappers. Same towels. Same smells almost. Same views. Home across the human spirit of imaginary states. Just outside streets with tree names. And out of this I arrived from love created for each single completed square space spilling forward, motel to motel, born by American Motel...

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The motel room It was on fire last night 45 outside Burning fierce within The heat The passion It permeated I thought I could contain it But it spread to me The aircon working overtime But still the fire burnt ferociously Was waiting for alarms to sound Red trucks to show up Knocking on the door To say Shut up The motel room It was on fire last night...

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Rosemary does a lady proud. If not for the faint aroma, as nicotine and soft music deliver a quiet invitation. Her heart opens with the door and allows a feeling to grow, a candle to be lit. With the draw of the night, a closing door, she sets fire to her insides. The hint of desire is washed away. Eclectic heartbreaks, but then, maybe just daring lust has...

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Motel room, U.S. map made of license plates everything I need for a week is here, king- size bed, microwave, fridge, tv, hot plate the carpet's pretty clean, the bathroom baptized and there are two mirrors in which to imagine myself, to analyze and idolize. WiFi, no Elizabethan inn, in a century when we fear nuclear war and are warned against the shock...

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My weight is still plummeting, I'm happy as hell Wasting away, to my fatness I say farewell But it's the chance I take For goodness sake Young fillies will be bugging me for a night at my motel...

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TATEIAN WHEELS OF LIFE Twenty Dora-band aids barely cover one of my scars across my chest. It's my stomach this time. But one hour of reading James Tate makes my mouth curled upward, with an outward breath and smile. Though as morning ended, I thought, "My mood today is nowhere, I haven't been able to...

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