Bitter Junk-Ball Motel –

Bitter Junk-Ball Motel
Built in forty-one weeks
fifty-two brown rooms, spit dimpled mirrors, asbestos in the artwork, there’s scratched furniture for the drug addicts
shuffling packets of medication around tables, keeps them all awake, but for what, the next day
three-hour sleep in cloth still holding wet rain – persistent coughs, consistent claims
visitation rights monopolised by kindly monks who understand gibberish, take it all in, serenely, with Eric Satie on the stolen iPod
men outnumber women, if they could mate, umbilical cords would be in the soup, bread to dip
Bitter Junk-Ball Motel’s neon sign hanging by a thread, attractions listed – fares paid for love affairs

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