Strathcona Hotel, Victoria

Outside is the muted blast

of a motorcycle engine

a dog howls

and the seagulls caw even at night.

 

Someone yells down the streets

and groups of youth laugh and howl

like packs of drunk street wolves.

 

I’m older now

distanced from them in mind

so I’m squirrelled away in a hotel room

on the third floor

high up and observant

listening to too much old bullshit jazz

reading too much

old bullshit Bukowski

and wondering why I’m not famous yet.

 

Because I’m spending too much time

in hotel rooms

thinking about life and writing bad poems

instead of being out in the street

howling

living life

and writing good poems.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s