The Body Clock Hotel

Rooms For Hire!
£500 to stay in my stomach, per night.
We wake you up when you need!
Shout instructions into the room on entry.
Breakfast is complimentary.
We’ll do our best not to eat you.

Review 15:
We held a piss party.
Clean place, up until the games began.
HA          HA          HA
Accommodating staff, didn’t ask questions.

Review 2:
I murdered my wife in Room 208 last night.
Pillows were plump and cosy.
Police response was too quick.
I wish I could have tried the breakfast.

Review 375:
Played Hide ’n’ Seek.
The room almost gave me away
when my giggles tickled it.
Game lasted 45 minutes.
Recommend.

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We need it to breathe.

Review 41:
My grandson’s graduation was the next day.
Our stay was perfect. I’m glad the heart-shaped
bed can split in two. He didn’t need the alarm system.
I kept him up all night with the motorbike
stuck in my nostrils. I need to get it fixed.
Wish I had the chance to bring my wife here.

Review 580:
The room tricked us out of a séance.
Gladys is convinced Derrick was talking to her,
but I saw the walls throw the mirrors off
and inflate under the table.
I didn’t pay for bullshit magic.
Please advise your rooms to behave.
Also, the décor was too Nuevo-post-glitch-core-abstractism for me.
I like sinks where the water pours downwards
and doesn’t avoid your hands.

Review 1627:
Thank you for positioning paparazzi outside
our room. I should be alive in newsprint again
for at least a week now. One ruined marriage,
one revived career. Big Brother, embrace me!

Review 1628:
Sorry for throwing a wrecking ball
through your walls yesterday.
The government told us to play catch
with the wrong building.
If you survived and need somewhere to stay,
the Comfort Inn down the road
does continental breakfast too.

A Rubix Cube Dancefloor Shark Attack

A Rubix Cube Dancefloor Shark Attack

I drop whiskey rocks and admire the neon lacquer walls.
You don’t focus on décor, only the dance flock and spot her.
She is an ex-primary school mate, with naked pictures online.
We approach, but lose her in a flaying limb-crowd of friends.
You say her legs would make a nice neck scarf.
They swallow her up with shapes and colour shifts.

I drink from jukeboxes to grow kaleidoscope vision.
You tell me to stop singing and pull me to break beats.
She bumps into us, doesn’t recognise, but says sorry with hips.
We forget how to speak. Bass lines do wingman talk for me.
You tell me to get a drink for all her friends, wink and grind.
They notice I don’t have enough hands, laugh and let you in.

I am addicted to liquid coping mechanisms and barmaid company.
You are too good at arranging sleepovers.