Wednesday, July 07, 2010

burn me


city sweats in July heat,
buildings sink and wallpaper peels,
a muted trumpet plays Miles Davis,
insomniacs do laundry,
a Chinese restaurant cook has a cigarette in the alley,
steam pours from rusty pipes,
coffee is on for
street sweepers,
newspaper trucks,
drowsy cop cars,
Mr. O'Rourke from 207 is humpin' some whore,
you can hear 'em hollering and groaning two floors up
where I lie awake on an old mattress,
room lit by a neon strip club sign,
out the window,
a drunken bum sings,
a slurred Dean Martin's "Somewhere there's a someone,"
as I read an old urine stained Gideons bible,
pouring over the last few verses of Lamentations,
sweat drips as I dream of tender lovers of the past,
thick steaks and icy martinis,
it's so hot, even the angels stink of B.O.

4 comments:

Square Corner said...

Laughed mightily at that last line. A keeper. Urban grit and sweat: that's what summer is, just like this poem. Pardon me, there's a lady waiting for me in room 207.

Anonymous said...

adnan - great writing. the heat is blistering much like the gas of of a demon who ate vindaloo for breakfast. come over for some AC at 26 if you need to.

word.

>haha. room 207. oh square horn - i mean CORN!<

Old Ollie said...

IAWAH is hotter than ever!

Fisheye Lens said...

Welcome to the Hotel Earle. "A day or a lifetime"!