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The Penultimate Hotel by Stewart Stafford
Enter sluggishly into the lobby,
A banquet is in progress in the restaurant,
They’re regurgitating reality from within,
And then eating their young.
An apocalyptic porter has radioactive cubes in the lift,
Housekeeping will have ten thousand years of light,
But the sheets in the rooms,
Will all turn to cream cheese.
The cooks in the kitchen are breaking bones and rules,
Creating a cake that stretches to infinity,
Babel babble with protesting eggs,
All baked in a hellfire oven.
The concierge gives out tips,
And tells guests they are awful and to leave,
While simultaneously tattooing diabolical potion recipes,
Inside a willing bellhop’s eyelids.
© 2021, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.
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