The Honeymoon Hotel
Some might suggest this poem
sounds like a Leonard Cohen song
but this is really not the case
as my taxi slides down Park Lane
towards Shepherds Market
a high class tarts venue
with mock sophistication
and veneers of tawdy richness
which seduce those who wish to pay.
It is just another sordid form of parlour
fun,
Nearby is the Honeymoon Hotel
in which excited punters check into
signing their secretive signatures
like Mr and Mrs Excalibur, or
Rupert Ryan and Kate Thong.
Wives abandoned as these false lovers
lock their doors from any visitations
of outside threats.
Around them hang smoke stained curtains
and below faded carpets with cigarette burns
and cracked old mirors encompassed with fading
plastic leaves, hang sadly overhead
as he lights two Romeo y Julietta cigars
for him and for her, the smoke of which
curls around her brassy hair and
caresses his balding pate, quite grey.
Not much is spoken and she tells him
how attractive he is and he believes it.
So wrapping her ankles around his
she nails him to the sheets
and he can hear the room above
rattling to a furious finishing finale,
exciting him to engender passionate ectasy.
When all is done he stares and locates the ceiing
with all its marks and indentations looking
just like her scarred back resembling
a sea of starry constellations.
For him and not just for her is a
misinformed sense of meaning a sense
they really thought this was real, pretending
it was devoid of lust but somehow romantic.
But then the bedside phone rings, 15 Minutes please!
before your time is finished. Is there time to shower
and dry skin on well worn flocky towels.
In the shower he sees her long old scar
stretched across a white panty line
where some awful surgery scooped stuff from her
some time back then, which hurts her now to shower.
He returns to where he lives and lies where he has been
to friends, to family.
So now I've told you and you know.
If I lie to you my fellow poets
then you will know where to place me.
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