this room; this place - an artifact of some lost civilization
buried in the fifties of nostalgia and mccarthyisms
she lays in a dirty hemmed slip upon the unkempt bed
that if alive would speak of unspeakable sins
committed in the solemn presence of howdy doody...
of screams mingled with the good morning inanities
of a black and white screen full of blank children
nylon curtains and cheap; peeling neo-classic wallpaper
the underlying stink of urine and stained threadbare carpet
thinly disguised with antiseptic
'do you love me...?' she murmers into the tear stained pillow
'Yeh, sure..." the surly, tattooed marked; faceless voice says
depositing crumpled; beer soaked dollar notes on the chipboard dresser
the shadows dance as the door opens
and a little more of her soul escapes
mea culpa! mama; mea culpa...
A contest entry
- Woman in a motel by AJ Morelli.
2000 points, ended May 27, 25 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
I'm so
Comments
-
there is a solid kernel embedded in a sea of superfluous words... a little more cutting and sharpening would do this poem good...
thanks for entering it here
al -
The spark gets snuffed under all these words. Less is more. Maybe something like this?
this room; an artifact
buried in the fifties,
she lays upon a bed
that strains under unspeakable sin
'do you love me...?'
'Yeah, sure..."
the shadows dance as the door opens
and a little more of her soul escapes
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