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10/01/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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Page Boy Motel
Monotonous lunar landscapes, past and past, hours of blunt gambling through the craggy red rock deserts of Arizona, in the west the spiritual canyons of the Grand Canyon have sunk, after all the violence of the images, the meditative massacre, what is to come. South of Lake Powell, above the dam, my motel lies tired. Page Boy.
The light brown door loses its colour. Shabby chic. From the parking lot I open the entrance to a tattered room. Warm desert air blows from the dam through the room. Someone left the door to the rubble garden on the other side open. A touch of Hesperides flees there into the open, room cleaner perhaps. Someone's been smoking here. Black dry tobacco, the cheap stuff. Maybe two-by-two cedar juniper. One has no idea what the desert does to people Warm wax stains. Softly they root deep into the worn carpet, bury brownish flowers underneath, steaming the fleshy smell into the fabric. I smell the iris butter in bed, smeared with coconut oil on the sheet. Now and then the room still breathes the smoke. Little clouds of cloves, too. I don't know where they come from I sit in a leather armchair and stare out the window tiredly. Thirsty, they twist their branches, the trees in the garden, knotty and dry, there hasn't been rain here for months, only animals, how are you supposed to survive. After hours I seem to have arrived. In my thoughts I have laid the sheet on the leather and sleep in the soft bunch of wax flowers, the smoke and the animals are blown away, the pictures are harmoniously interwoven in the worn brown carpet
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
The light brown door loses its colour. Shabby chic. From the parking lot I open the entrance to a tattered room. Warm desert air blows from the dam through the room. Someone left the door to the rubble garden on the other side open. A touch of Hesperides flees there into the open, room cleaner perhaps. Someone's been smoking here. Black dry tobacco, the cheap stuff. Maybe two-by-two cedar juniper. One has no idea what the desert does to people Warm wax stains. Softly they root deep into the worn carpet, bury brownish flowers underneath, steaming the fleshy smell into the fabric. I smell the iris butter in bed, smeared with coconut oil on the sheet. Now and then the room still breathes the smoke. Little clouds of cloves, too. I don't know where they come from I sit in a leather armchair and stare out the window tiredly. Thirsty, they twist their branches, the trees in the garden, knotty and dry, there hasn't been rain here for months, only animals, how are you supposed to survive. After hours I seem to have arrived. In my thoughts I have laid the sheet on the leather and sleep in the soft bunch of wax flowers, the smoke and the animals are blown away, the pictures are harmoniously interwoven in the worn brown carpet
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
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SamuelGustav
