The Shining

Writer's block starts
in the walk-in freezer,
raw fog wrapped
in butcher paper.

The echo of your
typewriter's return
rolls on three wheels
down Bordeaux
flooded corridors.

Ignore the twins in
blue dresses and barrettes,
the shapeshifter cackling
in the lime-drenched bath.

The elixir's there,
beyond the shimmer
of nicotine-smeared
wallpaper.

Drink the Gold Room's
nectar, bourbon bottles
burning your throat,
drowning your mouth's
squatter.

Don't wait for knocking
jackals—limp past
the lamppost's glow
through the hedge maze,
buried in blizzard snow.

Don't wait for lipstick
to paint rum red—
axe hack the ream
of repetition,
the blade splintering.

Reverse your steps
on the unmarked path.

It's there, deep
in the phonograph's horn,

floating in black air,
fluttering under flappers'
sequins.

Wait for the soiree's
whirring wind,
the chatter from within—
The Shining.

You can escape
your barren brain.

The music plays
when ladies dance,

your eyes crazed.

This poem was first published in Bouncin' and Behavin' Poems on Medium.