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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Romance/Love · #2227644
You can't check out anytime you want - but you can always leave...
Blue Hotel

You come
for a little milk of human kindness
of course I know
you'll marry money.
False prophets, princes, saviors
fill up all your black book's pages.

Meanwhile,
you're here to dabble
in a little independence
compulsive craving
misbehaving
something's missing -
some little devil in Miss Jones, tonight
sharpens up an appetite...

And I don't ask the questions
and I won't provide the answers,
I don't really give a damn
about the lies of broken dancers,

nothing more than blips that lips are
tracking on a radar screen.

Foreign affairs, weary travelers
consulting tourist maps
considering an overnight stay
(bed and breakfast?)
I can make a wicked omelette,
but my dear,
for the very best I have to offer
I must break some eggs.

And I know you will agree
that touching without touching
is the order of the day.
My soup du jour provides the cure,
just the very thing
your doctor never ordered.

Well yes,
my hands can touch you
like an artist
and leave no trace
of where they've been.

That's what you wanted after all?
Nothing more than satisfaction
of a mild curiosity...

My colors all run pastel,
dissolving into guiltless, guileless
formless invisibility
not pressed or printed
under the floodlights of your
other life,
when I fade just like a memory
a candleflame that's whispered out...

No-one's ever lonely
in my Blue Hotel.



















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