Pearls falling on the stone steps outside Neon lights reflected in the rain puddles “Bang, Bang” Nancy Sinatra sang “I shot you down…” The music faded as I walked away Movie posters lined the brick walls Framed lovers embraced One another Between frozen portraits Of atomic monsters And art house flicks While looking away at the box office girls Slender and fixed Up for the customers And troubled youth; Their tenacious allure for a requiem for the living Cathedrals replaced by tower records And Chinese restaurants Withering, zealous loan sharks Feasting on squished dreams Licking their teeth with their tongues Smacking against the laughter Of festering sodomites and Plastic-injected food Basking in pools of molten gold And sliced actors I was in the middle of this Me Enforcing the invisible layer Of success in the city of Angels Where demons of entertainment Pull the strings Like Bela Lugosi said. Moving through the Hollywood hotel I hear moaning voices Creaking beds Loud televisions Shouting and blaring beats I open room 314 And walk in The wallpaper peels like a corrosive blister Mr. Poe sits at his desk Waiting for me He pours a drink I abide He passes me an envelope I feel its thickness I open it up and flip through The bills, placing it in my inner pocket I nod and swallow the bourbon And leave What pulp magazines tell you Of the underbelly The style, the glamour The women, the one-liners And thrills are replaced by Shattered morals Broken bones ***** stained stool pigeons Slaughterfest racism Taxi backseat ******* Where joints and blood Spent napkins, clean the mess Of the seats. Through clubs and social abundances I find coked-up fiends and producer hugging Sycophants. Laughing, smiling, drooling, kissing Any who will profit Able to get in line To be the next big thing On the silver screen Or at the bottom of the sea Under Santa Monica pier Watching the group of Empty flattery, heartless groping I follow and keep my distance 3 hours later I knock on their fancy hotel suite Just when the door unlocks I push it through And pull out my gun They scream but they know Who I am And who I work for I instill fear back into their Comfortable lives. They have debts They own their luxury to to others That was the price They sold their souls and bodies for fame And they will all eventually pay I remind them what could happen I shoot through the mirrors and glass I pick one up and dangle them over the balcony I find one member of the social party who does not belong Who is not worth any thing Who is expendable. I grab that one and exercise my warning My superior’s warnings I bash his skull on the ikea coffee table I pick up the vase of flowers by the side I dump it all over him I pick one white rose and Dip it in the collecting blood And watch it stain the flower I lift it up and show it to the room Still eyes and sweating faces look at it; At me and what I represent: A winning hand A knock-out punch Wrath personified Callous, methodical, professional, indifferent Mr. Libestraum is who I work for Mr. Schyman is what I go by. My point is made and I leave them with the body I walk out and call my people My part is done. I walk out unnoticed and paid Pay a vendor for coffee Sit along the bench and wait for the sun to rise On a new day. And think back to what I was told when I saw my first hit, “Welcome To LA.”