Smokey motel room
Open window helps a bit
highway lullaby
That’s a haiku I wrote a number of years ago on a road trip to Utah. Though I had reserved a non-smoking room, the motel had given it away before I arrived—leaving me stuck in a smoking room.
Hotel, motel — does it make a difference. The story ends the same. You are both inhaling, ingesting, injecting from the cut stuff on the table and then you roll around in bed pretending that it means something.
I met you at that dingy hotel. There were many nights when we met secretly, into the night… late… everyone else is asleep… things done which were never spoken of, after. Life goes on… that was then… I wouldn’t meet you in that motel again.
A dark, dingy motel with a flickering vacancy sign was the site of our first night together. Inebriated and lustful, we tore each other’s clothing off as if we could only stay together for a few minutes. We collapsed on the bed shortly afterward, our hands reaching for each other in desperation, trying to push away the world we had left behind.
A motown motel? Like hell! With bells and magic fingers, really – do tell! It’s just a shell, like Mel on meth, and sometimes Beth. And the clerks – Lord they do smell! I suppose it’s just as well, in my motown motel.
“There!” She laid down the last tile and with it won the game of scrabble–by a significant margin no less. “Now it’s time for you to live up to your end of the bargain!” Fair was fair. I picked up the gun and lifted it to my temple…
The motel sat at the crossroads on the flat desolate plains. Dust, wind, dead grass, they were its only companions. “There’s nothing here but death,” Jock commented as he and Whalen emptied the contents of their van. “Yeah, but it’s death that pays fifty bucks a set and a night’s lodging,” Whalen replied as he pulled his weather beaten guitar case out of the van. “And that, my friend, is enough life for me.”
Im Motel ist es ein wenig schmuddlig. Nicht wirklich so, dass ich es dreckig nennen könnte. Es ist alles geputzt und ich weiß nicht wirklich, wo dieser Eindruck herkommt. Die weißen Ablagen im Bad sind weiß. Die Fliesen sind sauber.
There’s a sense of horror that runs through his veins like an electrical current; reality crashes, thundering around him as the blood spills again, the bodies crumble and flesh and organs settle, never to truly quiver with the breath of life again.
Emir–Garcian–whoever he is–remembers the six people he murdered in cold blood that night, takes a deep breath, and steps back into the elevator.
It’s time for him to let go. It’s time for him to kill his past.
I once ate breakfast in a motel. Well, you can call it breakfast I suppose, but it was really just a semi-stale piece of damp toast with lukewarm orange juice in a fingerprint-stained glass. Not the finest way to start a Wednesday.
cheep dirt place and there was a hooker by the window making love to her cigarette. the coke machine was busted but the bum still tried to get a coke out of it. i had to walk back to my car because i forgot to bring my charger. coat high, shrugging and nodding in a cool manner to passerbys
They drove up to the motle and sighed. Finally they were here. Or there? They’d been driving so long it didn’t really make a difference. The only thing they cared about was stopping and sleeping. Sleeping as if their lives depended on it
every time i pass that place i think of the night we shared together. the gunshots and the yelling i heard the next morning. the way the television screen glowed beneath the fire of you and me. and sometimes i wonder how exactly i thought i’d
He stumbled into the motel, clutching his bleeding arm. It was the blackest house of the morning. His mind was fragmented, his thoughts broken, his innards exposed. He collapsed, exhausted.
She checked into the neon motel at the edge of the world, where no one lived but everyone fucked. The sounds of slapping flesh made the colorful lights blink like erratic eyes.
the motel was in shambles
yesterday’s night explosion pulverized the hell out of it
but there were no victim
oh ok… there were some but not socially productive people
so it didn’t count…
not for him, the mastermind behind all of this.
Motels have a reputation for being dirty. Perhaps that’s well-deserved. I never cared much for the word, really. Portmanteaus are fun to make, but they always sound childish in real life. And besides, it’s a fine example of the ubiquitous permeation of cars into all aspects of American life which, while often rather convenient, is not something of which I prefer to be constantly reminded.
It was a cheap and skeezy sort of place; the kind I thought only existed in movies. It smelled like smoke, sex and cheap beer here. Who would have thought this was where I’d be spending my Friday afternoon?
The smell of musty old cigars filled my nose and clung to the back of my throat in disgust. I didn’t want to be there, but I had no choice. It was our place–or at least, the only place where he’d freely call himself mine.
skeevy, dirty motels that smell kind of funny and make me fear for my life. i’m not entirely sure what that stain on the carpet is; all i know is that i’m afraid to touch it in case it gives me a terminal disease. i feel alone. i want to go home, but there’s nowhere to go.
hotel, motel, holiday inn. ha. i don’t even know any other words to that song. but that’s all that came to mind. that and in-we-go. we stayed at the motel at that resort. i miss that place so much. and my family. and i want it to be summer again. i feel winter setting in and i’m not liking it. i want to go swimming.
The neon light flickered with a garish buzz in the semi-reflective pool of dark liquid. He stared, his breath tangled with frozen thought, all refusing to divulge the meaning of the scene before him.
We’ve been driving for 2 days already; here we are lodging in at Nevada, drawing closer, but yet so far at the same time. I reclined on the motel bed, under these musty sheets that reeked of cheap motel sex, tears, and a history of events that I don’t want to think about. I looked over at my brother whom slept and has been driving for the entirety of the trip. I was thankful, because someone had to help me move out of Texas and make my plans of San Francisco-bound come true.
The motel room stinks of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke, and it seems a fitting end for the man who stole his life so many years ago.
“Good night,” he murmurs darkly, and twists the knife as he pulls it out of his gasping opponent’s chest; blood spatters like rain, hot and wine-red.
He turns to leave, tugging his coat back up to cover the space where his right arm should be. The sound of a body falling limply to the floor is all that remains of his enemy.
She sat on the motel bed, pulling up her pantie hoes. She attached them back on her garter, pulled up her dress, and walked out. Frank didn’t like calling her like this. He was desperate. He needed some kind of relieve.
I woke up in a motel with my hands coated in blue paint and my shoes superglued to the floor, yet all I could think about is what he thought about me. Is this love or a coma?
He pulled into the parking lot of the Rive View Motel. The destroyed blacktop and cracked paint on the building gave him a knot in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be here and he knew it.
I saw the pair of automobiles pull up, I knew this was the place, the seedy under belly of America. Yet I stayed and watched, my cigarette smoke souring the air in my car as I watched the scene unfold .
I stayed at the beach in an old motel where the room had a shelf on the wall above the bed and we kept a box of saltines there. I had my own bed and my sister had hers. It was the first and best vacation we ever had.
Smokey motel room
Open window helps a bit
highway lullaby
That’s a haiku I wrote a number of years ago on a road trip to Utah. Though I had reserved a non-smoking room, the motel had given it away before I arrived—leaving me stuck in a smoking room.
Hotel, motel — does it make a difference. The story ends the same. You are both inhaling, ingesting, injecting from the cut stuff on the table and then you roll around in bed pretending that it means something.
I met you at that dingy hotel. There were many nights when we met secretly, into the night… late… everyone else is asleep… things done which were never spoken of, after. Life goes on… that was then… I wouldn’t meet you in that motel again.
A dark, dingy motel with a flickering vacancy sign was the site of our first night together. Inebriated and lustful, we tore each other’s clothing off as if we could only stay together for a few minutes. We collapsed on the bed shortly afterward, our hands reaching for each other in desperation, trying to push away the world we had left behind.
A motown motel? Like hell! With bells and magic fingers, really – do tell! It’s just a shell, like Mel on meth, and sometimes Beth. And the clerks – Lord they do smell! I suppose it’s just as well, in my motown motel.
“You can come anytime you need, but you can never leave”
“There!” She laid down the last tile and with it won the game of scrabble–by a significant margin no less. “Now it’s time for you to live up to your end of the bargain!” Fair was fair. I picked up the gun and lifted it to my temple…
The motel sat at the crossroads on the flat desolate plains. Dust, wind, dead grass, they were its only companions. “There’s nothing here but death,” Jock commented as he and Whalen emptied the contents of their van. “Yeah, but it’s death that pays fifty bucks a set and a night’s lodging,” Whalen replied as he pulled his weather beaten guitar case out of the van. “And that, my friend, is enough life for me.”
Im Motel ist es ein wenig schmuddlig. Nicht wirklich so, dass ich es dreckig nennen könnte. Es ist alles geputzt und ich weiß nicht wirklich, wo dieser Eindruck herkommt. Die weißen Ablagen im Bad sind weiß. Die Fliesen sind sauber.
There’s a sense of horror that runs through his veins like an electrical current; reality crashes, thundering around him as the blood spills again, the bodies crumble and flesh and organs settle, never to truly quiver with the breath of life again.
Emir–Garcian–whoever he is–remembers the six people he murdered in cold blood that night, takes a deep breath, and steps back into the elevator.
It’s time for him to let go. It’s time for him to kill his past.
I once ate breakfast in a motel. Well, you can call it breakfast I suppose, but it was really just a semi-stale piece of damp toast with lukewarm orange juice in a fingerprint-stained glass. Not the finest way to start a Wednesday.
Went to a motel with her one night –
a lady whom I had barely known
but knew there had been some connection with.
The visit was expensive
but the night was wonderful
and I’d visit her again.
cheep dirt place and there was a hooker by the window making love to her cigarette. the coke machine was busted but the bum still tried to get a coke out of it. i had to walk back to my car because i forgot to bring my charger. coat high, shrugging and nodding in a cool manner to passerbys
He looked towards it with worry. What would await him through the closed door? A new life? Or a new disaster… Only time would tell.
They drove up to the motle and sighed. Finally they were here. Or there? They’d been driving so long it didn’t really make a difference. The only thing they cared about was stopping and sleeping. Sleeping as if their lives depended on it
The motel with the only vacancy sign was visible on the horizon.
They met secretly. Just took the next exit, the next motel and there it was. A space for them, that didn’t belong to either of their lives.
Then she was sad, as she passed the old structure that stood for so long, carrying her memories. Life does go on, after all.
somewhere a trucker goes and has sex with a prostitute and ends up butchering her up. Scary.
every time i pass that place i think of the night we shared together. the gunshots and the yelling i heard the next morning. the way the television screen glowed beneath the fire of you and me. and sometimes i wonder how exactly i thought i’d
He stumbled into the motel, clutching his bleeding arm. It was the blackest house of the morning. His mind was fragmented, his thoughts broken, his innards exposed. He collapsed, exhausted.
She checked into the neon motel at the edge of the world, where no one lived but everyone fucked. The sounds of slapping flesh made the colorful lights blink like erratic eyes.
And we drove for an hour along the dark stretch of highway, until we came to a motel.
The sign was half burnt out and the concierge was half-asleep, but it was a place to put our heads while we dreamt of where we were going.
the motel was in shambles
yesterday’s night explosion pulverized the hell out of it
but there were no victim
oh ok… there were some but not socially productive people
so it didn’t count…
not for him, the mastermind behind all of this.
Motels have a reputation for being dirty. Perhaps that’s well-deserved. I never cared much for the word, really. Portmanteaus are fun to make, but they always sound childish in real life. And besides, it’s a fine example of the ubiquitous permeation of cars into all aspects of American life which, while often rather convenient, is not something of which I prefer to be constantly reminded.
It was a cheap and skeezy sort of place; the kind I thought only existed in movies. It smelled like smoke, sex and cheap beer here. Who would have thought this was where I’d be spending my Friday afternoon?
Anselme finished putting his clothes in the dresser and stepped back.
it was a bright morning after a deep, rich and life-changing night. she’d known love before but never did she imagine it could be like this
The smell of musty old cigars filled my nose and clung to the back of my throat in disgust. I didn’t want to be there, but I had no choice. It was our place–or at least, the only place where he’d freely call himself mine.
skeevy, dirty motels that smell kind of funny and make me fear for my life. i’m not entirely sure what that stain on the carpet is; all i know is that i’m afraid to touch it in case it gives me a terminal disease. i feel alone. i want to go home, but there’s nowhere to go.
hotel, motel, holiday inn. ha. i don’t even know any other words to that song. but that’s all that came to mind. that and in-we-go. we stayed at the motel at that resort. i miss that place so much. and my family. and i want it to be summer again. i feel winter setting in and i’m not liking it. i want to go swimming.
The neon light flickered with a garish buzz in the semi-reflective pool of dark liquid. He stared, his breath tangled with frozen thought, all refusing to divulge the meaning of the scene before him.
We’ve been driving for 2 days already; here we are lodging in at Nevada, drawing closer, but yet so far at the same time. I reclined on the motel bed, under these musty sheets that reeked of cheap motel sex, tears, and a history of events that I don’t want to think about. I looked over at my brother whom slept and has been driving for the entirety of the trip. I was thankful, because someone had to help me move out of Texas and make my plans of San Francisco-bound come true.
The motel room stinks of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke, and it seems a fitting end for the man who stole his life so many years ago.
“Good night,” he murmurs darkly, and twists the knife as he pulls it out of his gasping opponent’s chest; blood spatters like rain, hot and wine-red.
He turns to leave, tugging his coat back up to cover the space where his right arm should be. The sound of a body falling limply to the floor is all that remains of his enemy.
She sat on the motel bed, pulling up her pantie hoes. She attached them back on her garter, pulled up her dress, and walked out. Frank didn’t like calling her like this. He was desperate. He needed some kind of relieve.
I woke up in a motel with my hands coated in blue paint and my shoes superglued to the floor, yet all I could think about is what he thought about me. Is this love or a coma?
He pulled into the parking lot of the Rive View Motel. The destroyed blacktop and cracked paint on the building gave him a knot in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be here and he knew it.
I saw the pair of automobiles pull up, I knew this was the place, the seedy under belly of America. Yet I stayed and watched, my cigarette smoke souring the air in my car as I watched the scene unfold .
I stayed at the beach in an old motel where the room had a shelf on the wall above the bed and we kept a box of saltines there. I had my own bed and my sister had hers. It was the first and best vacation we ever had.
The first thing I noticed about the motel was the half-empty pizza box on the hood of the car next to mine.
The second thing I noticed was the door hanging open of room twelve.