The Irma Hotel, Cody Wyoming


This hotel is not good on the fragile mind,

of someone in the grip of delusion, an acid eater.

The thick plush wallpaper of the narrow hallways,

drip from the walls like melting wax.

The drippings transform into fingers,

reaching for me, encircling me in a quasi psychotic uterus.

Orchestrated  reverberations from a heartbeat,

the surging of blood through veins of copper and lead.

I tremble like a child.

It’s 2am.

The dead speak,

haunting whispers in the darkness.

A faceless reflection of a lost cowboy,


Room 35.

The floor dissolves,

the elk squeals.

I plummet down a vast expanse of

wooden stairs and altered conciseness.

The fall observed by a thousand staring eyes.

Eyes which watch my every move.

Eyes suspended by tiny nails in horsehair plaster.

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