Holiday Inn

Glenn Fosbraey

A bag for life; plastication bulge,
in he checked, shatting up his chat-up to blue-suit blonde:
“I’ve left my life, come to Holiday Inn,”
her smile, stopped at her lips, provokes
a thought -from my sub, conned:
Man-hands swaddled
Arms up, sharp and sour (raw-run death fucker)
Face aches in wide screen – HD-
You dreamt this
Went all out to get this:
“My loss: my gain”, ingrained memory spunk, pitted on
your dental floss,
blown wideandfar, spilling outta pink bins
painted like rouged pigs
their strands strewn for yards (and sewn) we
sat on bricks
saying : “lonely man’s idiocy; lonely man’s adultery”
you second that, in time
means less to go on\
no fingers to bring up
that guttural squelch, greenscreen freeze
tinned headphone shriek
three stumps stuck throaty disdain affluence
pitched o’er reception wadded accented oik
a piss stain on y-fronts of life
he said, with a straight face:
“the grass isn’t greener,
the grass is half-dead”
and the other side
of that fence
is matted with silage,
so rank,
“I can barely beat one off and be caught in two minds”
To that, she did smile,
Handed ‘cross the keycard, her chapped, claptrap hands
A patron, ionised, to room 101,
he walked in silence

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