Why you got those boots on your feet
Are you the wandering jingle jangler
That heeled high feeling easy dreamer
Lending ears to become the audience
Marking antonyms like Julius Caesar
Trying to rise before the failures fall
Sublimely for the mad beauty of it all
In desperate dreams of the final curtain
Draping the fading drama in the folds
The weatherman never read the script
And left his quill on the top of the hill
When Romeo betrayed Juliet to the fool
Stealing his chance of everlasting fame
Casting shadows before his own naming
Everything in the lies of playing games.
At least that’s why he sold himself again
For *** and drudgery’s rotting role play
Once for the money and twice to show
That charity begins when gambling ends
Throwing dice at the shaming of the true
Believers in the obviously innocent song
That sang itself to deaths other oblivion
Dwelling inside the flickering footlights
Burning soles who tread the dollar less way
To stage their very own beautiful demise
Before a paying and praying audience
There’s no business like the dying business
That’s the dumb an’ smart career move  
As death consumes all; here and ever after
The three ring circus hits the super highway
To heavenly pay days in the after math
That stole the souls of the leading actors
Wasn’t that just the smart career move
To die happily on the wings of disaster
Farewell sweet prince an’ princesses
May flights of angels love your music.

A message to the past and the future
not for the faint of heart, crass.
A lonely whisky bottle made for rapture
now floating towards capture

enraptured for the cycle of life.
Cyclical and lyrical mysticism,
lyricists binding ciphers, skinning with a knife
ride through a maze with the pied piper, don’t fight.

We idolize with holy reverence what a reference,
follow around with perseverance and benevolence.
I got a secret for you that might kick up some dirt,
But, hush, don’t get too constipated ’*** this might hurt,
Listen, here is the deal:

Head towards your following,
amass your biblical seal,
but you’ll get knocked down with zeal,
and you’ll feel the loving embrace of fear!

Cyclical and lyrical mysticism,
lyricists binding ciphers, skinning with a knife
ride through a maze with the pied piper, don’t fight.

what would i give
to wake up next to you
fingertips dancing on hips
as curtains give way to sunlight;
the world,
a wonder of sight?

what would i give
to drown...
in the crook of your neck
or the streams of your laughter
as you lurched your body forward
and laughed
with all your might?

what would i give
for our souls to entwine
the raggedness of your breath
spilling into mine?

what would i give
to be given a gift;
to weave another reality;
craft a different mentality;
build a sanctuary;
one with you and me
our confined souls broken free?

just what would i give
just what should i find
to redraw the line
for this silly popstar love of mine?

I want to be famous
I want to be known
I want to be loved by the masses

I want a stage to perform
I want millions of people to scream my name
I want the world to shed tears when they hear my voice

I want to be an icon
I want to dress in designer clothes
I want to be on the cover of every magazine

I want the press to write about my talent
I want the press to write about my beauty
I want the press to write about my grace

I want to break world records
I want to go down in history as the best
I want to be remembered forever

I then realize that with fame comes a jarring sense of loneliness
Because although you have millions of fans that chant your name
And a cast of characters that help you succeed
And expensive clothes
And all the money in the world
No one knows, and will ever know, who you truly are
And you won’t ever know the people or their story
Because you’ve become a two-dimensional figure with
No flaws
No insecurities
No regret
With no time to spend on anyone but yourself

It’s funny
When you’re famous, everyone knows who you are
And yet
You don’t understand a thing about what you’ve become.

We drove past it every Thursday;
blank, bleach white walls.
Clean, block rectangular.

There was a garage
and sometimes a black car
in the driveway.

It stood out crowded by cluttered
town houses smothered in ivy,
with long grass, red brick or pebble-dashed.

Glass on the street and supermarket
bags on the path, traffic,
conventionality, routine, and teletext.

But his house stood out.
The closest vision of showbiz style
I could see with all I knew being

he grew up near here,
like me, and that must be it,
the very house where

he would live if still in this city.
Creating a myth to myself
that he was allusive but he was inside.

I’d wind down the car window
listening out for the sound of
his songs in the air,

or watch to see if anybody
opened the door, lights of cameras
in the seconds we pass the junction.

Of course, never saw him
on the Thursdays our car passed by
but knew he was very busy.

Her life was magazines
And reality tv.
Selling a far fetched dream.
Her carbs and calories,
She watches so serene
To make the silver screen.

The price tag so obscene,
Weighs heavy on her mind.
And it dug out all of her insides
Til she was a ghost in a shell.

Since she was just fourteen.
She had nothing but dreams
To reach the hollywood scene.
From fame and limousines,
A man boasting a ring,
And everything in between.

The future can't be seen
Weighs heavy on her mind
And it dug out all of her insides
Created her hell.

We hear her crying late at night
Because nothing is going right.

She still hopes and she prays
For the life of a celebrity.
Under the smog of L.A.
The story always replays
Of finding her fantasy.
It slowly drifts away.

There's nothing left to say
It weighed her down
And it dug out everything she was
Now she is just a hollow shell.

A perfect tragedy.

I see the boy I used to be
not in a dream but on the street.

He walks alone without a beat
or rhythm in his feet.

He kicks a stone.
His mobile phone is glued to his cheek.

He seems the very model of
a troubled teenage tearaway.

Nothings lead to nothings, lead
to nothing honest he can say.

He knows what others think he is
and he’s terrified.

He thinks enough to know that he was
born lost.

He doesn’t toil his wits,
unwind a coil of ignorance
or dabble in some dissonance.

He speaks with recycled bits
of other people’s words.

He likes to quote celebrities
who like to speak in major keys,
who comfort him like family
and apathy.

He knows their faces
better than his own.

He remains featureless
but will cast the first stone.

Bright lights!
Neon signs!
Pounding sounds
with citrus scents.

Focus on me.
Zoom in.
Zoom out.
I'll be all they see.

All eyes on me!

Wet cement!
Handprints!
Deafening silence
with the smell of freshly burnt oak.

Focus on me.
Flashing lights.
Blinding colour.
I'll be all they see.

All eyes on me!

Big billboards!
Magazine covers!
Spotlight on me
and the crew sets up scene.

Focus on me.
Dig your nails into me.
Leave your scent on me.
I'll be all they see.

I'm everyone's favourite.
I'm in control.
The society is crumbling.
They hum a lulling beat.

With their eyes on me.

Got girls dragging me in every direction,
got me deciding who’s cool and who’s a distraction,
all these reactions to their reactions,
has me needing a recess to retreat from all this action,

but I guess that’s what I get,
for being one of the Main Attractions,
a magnetic poet with ******* stanzas,
dramatic romances and poetic patterns,

hey friend remember back when,
you’d act natural and things would just naturally happen,
instead of being in something that seems reused and rehearsed,
like all the world’s a stage and we’re all just actors acting,

hey friend remember back when,
we’d act casual and things would just casually happen,
as if these writings weren’t written in present past patterns,
as if I haven’t gotten bigger than any of those assorted Randoms,

with a bunch of instances of coincidences,
that are anything but random,
which has switched this kid’s position,
from being random to being one that’s obsessed on by randoms,

and it’s strange to say the least,
how this change has occurred in such a subtle fashion….

See she was my most casual stalker,
just wanting some time to share my space,
see she was me several years ago,
before all these changes in me finally took place,

she was a socially awkward Closet Genius,
the closest thing to me I’d seen since fame,
closed to most of the world which she felt was dangerous,
see she only opened up to me because here’s where she felt safe,

so I warned her of the Energy Vampires,
then wondered if she was one of those Vampire Dames,
you know the type that act all hyped,
then as soon as they leave you you feel drained,
at any rate I warned her to beware of those that stare,
and told her her soul is worth more than any amount of fame,
then excused myself from the entire situation,
because it was time for me to put on my cleats and return to The Game,

return back to writing these writings which wrote me to fame,
and I know it sounds complicated but really it is simple,
only requires a potent combination of mixing the answers,
with the questions in the middle of pros composed as riddles,

like,

how I’ve got girls dragging me in every direction,
got me deciding who’s cool and who’s a distraction,
all these reactions to their reactions,
has me needing a recess to retreat from all this action,

but I guess that’s what I get,
for being one of the Main Attractions,
a magnetic poet with ******* stanzas,
dramatic romances and poetic patterns,

hey friend remember back when,
you’d act natural and things would just naturally happen,
instead of being in something that seems reused and rehearsed,
like all the world’s a stage and we’re all just actors acting…

∆ LaLux ∆

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