Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.