I went to a hotel on a street with no name.
The windows were dark, corridors the same.
The clerk showed me my room, but scarcely spoke,
Through air so thick with soot and smoke.
I looked at my room with delighted despair.
The fire was dying, I was too tired to care.
Beneath the mattress, rot spread from the bone
And flesh of the last man who stayed here alone.
The rats in the walls gnawed and tore
Hungry for whatever walked through the door.
It was nearly the midnight hour.
I turned on the water, stripped for a shower.
The reddish-black water swirled down the drain.
The aroma was awful, abominable, arcane,
I gagged and abandoned that unholy flood
Which flowed slow and thick, like quicksand or mud.
The floorboards creaked at the slightest motion,
Every shallow breath causing a great commotion.
As I lay on my bed, which was broken and bare,
I reminded myself: This is only fair.
"It's written on the walls of this hotel,
You go to heaven
Once you've been through hell."
