On Said Hotel Bed
The sheets are always white and I only brought red pens.
Let the damage begin. A demangling of sorts, the kind that
(hello, my name is ursula and i will do my best to keep your room
to the standards to which you are accustomed) is probably
all sorts of used to. She probably doesn’t even care that
I howl like a black dog’s shadow every time my legs open.
There is ice by the gallon but I haven’t drank since
that night in the snowbank with the wild green moths.
I want to remember what home tastes like — something
about soft stones and the edges of moss — but it’s been
too long. I lick and lick the chocolate wrappers only
to find I’ve muddied the sheets with the tips of my dreams.
It’s August, MotherFuckers!
Image taken with iphone on the big, big hotel bed.
Words written while on said hotel bed.
Ears On the man of my dreams, typing.
Time Taken four minutes.
Brain On returning to the U.S. tomorrow.