On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are trains that
no longer run and
passengers who watch
their luggage gather
sheets of unstirred dust.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are empty ballrooms
full of gossamer gowns
that hang like once happy women.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are doors that lead
to guns and gold
and wide trunked trees
whose rotten fruit are not grown.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
balanced between
the river and the rail,
there is a story and a crime
and a girl with no eyes,
a song and a spade
and an unmarked grave
and a man with no tongue
who's afraid of the sun
and so plays the piano each night.
8 comments:
The Dabbs!!!
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are echoing giggles
of drunk teenage girls,
hoping the doctor will see them.
At the foot of the stairs,
their rides all departed,
stuck between heaven and home.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there is a group of critics
who's insecurity is so palpable
that they heap their wrath
on a sweet group of 20-SOMETHINGS
who are trying to have a good time.
The critics bring the girls down
to build themselves up.
They feel big, now,
but are blind to how small they've become.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel
there are trollops and tramps
and underage bacchanals
ruddy young men,
and ready young women
Who I would call harpies
but harpies aren’t vixens
Who I would called sirens
but they were not singing
Who held a Greek beauty
That only Tiresias could want.
ice cold.
For the record, I obviously have the most formal poetry training of the three of us.
i honestly never imagined that rap battles would evolve into poetry battles as we matured, er, grew older
Post a Comment