Four star
The night-club stopped pounding 4.48
I celebrated for exactly 43 minutes
By having a sleep
But by half five I needed another alcohol leak
And just after that
The early risers began to creep about
Guests slam doors; or let doors slam
Depending on which particular peculiarity
and random act of arm stretching they participate in
The newly weds are still having it off
The rock and rollers upstairs
throw a telly out the window
or so I’m sure they pretend.
Its really a paper aeroplane
with an ex lovers mobile phone number
and the promise of a blow job
if you text b4 10
and eat from pig troughs.
The coughing man, I think he’s 3 rooms down
I’m not sure
Though it feels he’s right next door
He has the spluttering power to drown the paper thin walls
Of the entire chocolate brown and cream floor
And the floor itself
Is filled on the whole
With holiday copulates
And super rich
And I cannot work out what pitch to take
when speaking to them in the lift
So I do the usual obligatory floor select
And ignore stance job
Silence
Until the courage is plucked
To silently think
idiots.