The hums of motels
So everything sounds like rain
or the palm wind off Timor or Arafura.
You stop the triune blades white
step into the air-con's tune.
Everything falls from the ceiling
even fluoro runs down the wall.
It's as far from heaven as you can get
amongst the humid hip-hop air
up hauling concrete steps.
There's smoke and gasp somewhere.
You've seen this movie
what infernos! you're on the run!
But there's nothing to chase you down
no bulldust, no crocs, leaping lizards
only the phones and the voices
you've made back home.
Like the fortune cookie said:
'you dial it up', now deal the circle
that rain washes away.
You can dust up again tomorrow.
Night's hums are mechanical, electric
while brother rain wets the seconds
and sister storm sings, not little tune
a bigger pattern, atmosphere deep
past beige blue curtains and the sweat.
It's animate, breath and thunder.
Let sleep decide!
At least the walls are white
and the wrapper says 'clean glass'.
Asti Motel, Darwin, 'round midnight, 13 April 2005