MOTEL 2

By Daniel Yakubov

“I learned that those who undergo this torment are damned because they sinned within the flesh, subjecting reason to the rule of lust.” - Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Outside.

From Motel 2's windows, I watch the

last rust-hemmed leaf fall to the

concrete, unceremoniously, that is:

without long black veils or dark-tinted

aviators

Inside.

Listen to the man moaning in

the next room:

Is it from pain or pleasure?

Is it the pleasure from the pain?

Is it the pain in the pleasure?

The skin sheets prune from blood splatters from

old-fashioned whiskey-dicked love-making and the

ruffling of the sheets paints the air tobacco.  Each

air-pull is the hug of a cigarette burn from your

father. 

If only you could see the fear in your

eyes when hands tightly grip

armchair arms.

The dust and paint chips never settle.

They only gather and fall  between

and after each “in-and-out”.

The cracking walls and the screams-- Why is there

screaming? The walls are screaming. I am

screaming. I am alone in Motel 2 and someone is

playing “Hotel California” backwards 

through a bronze gramophone. 

It is getting to me.

I want to taste the back of your eyeballs as they roll into your head

with ecstasy and pain. I want to see the fear in your eyes as I walk over

and pour myself single malt scotch. The one your father used to drink

before he had you hold out your palms as an ashtray. I want you to hold

out your palms and open wide to take the barrel of a gun that was

cocked and loaded since before you were born.

Outside.

I want to watch the icicles fall and

shatter onto frozen ground into

infinitely refracting diamonds

then melt into the dirt and turn it

into mud.

I want to watch the last light turn off

at Motel 2, from miles away. From a

rearview mirror.

#darkpoetsclub