Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror

The short straw took its bow
The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette
Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat

Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
And a familiar craving is crawling in his head


And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
Introducing characters to memories like old friends
Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines

A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour

Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour

The pilgrimage to happy hour

New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye

Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
Through a curtains tear, shuffling its beams
As if in nervous anticipation of another day