A small platoon of beauty,
Lovely boygirls with tiny *****
Posing like Vogue models
And doing dancing tricks
So, hot. So pretty, but not
In the slightest masculine;
No attempt to be butch,
They revel in being feminine.

They’re better at it than girls
Being more of a success
Than all the ** movie stars
In ten thousand dollar dresses.
Such pretty smooth faces, traces
Of ancestry and cool breeding
For thousands of screaming teens
Wishing they were breeding.

They wish these boys were closer
So they could caress and kiss
Close enough so they could not
Avoid, so the teens could not miss.
They want to carefully tarnish them,
These angels of flashing bright lights,
And cuddle them, snuggle them
If only for one youthful, sensuous night.

Here is one last sentiment
All in rightful luck
Hearken to the sediment
The city where you’re stuck

Where must we go?
My mind is cloaked to useful things
Who will we follow
Into the evening’s ring?

You must forge a name
Lest you be maimed
By fortune-starved fame
And young, vacant dames

So, you fancy fame?
Are you willing to step into the frame,
And give up your life
In exchange for the spotlight?

Careful--
It could go out soon.
Wistful--
Listen to the monster's croon.

So, you envy the game?
Will you keep your reputation tame?

And listen as they watch,
While you are left all done and used


Like another belt notch.

my words are used to having a destination -
a conversion rate,
      a like-to-click ratio,
              a saved post across timelines.
my words are used to being weighed
in golden showers of praise
by would-be strangers,
by eyes almost in a daze
from the internet and its dangers;
my words are more than happy
to be forgotten the next day -
they get that from me.

what happens when your words
fail to tip the scales
in any direction?
what happens when measuring fails,
and the mercy of others
is your only salvation?
what happens when your words decide
that their life is not one worth living?

if a heart breaks
and bleeds words onto a paper,
but no one reads them,
did it really break?

if words spill onto a page,
but no one saw them being spilt,
was a poem even written?

‘We all better lives,
very few of us, want
to be better people’

With the keys to immortality, I sold
my soul, the prices was cheap, walking
into church, holding Nietzsche's hand,
bursting into a ball of flames,
on the hall of fame when it comes to
pill popping, turned clean, I’m on
the wall of shame, should not be walking,
we got nothing in common, I’m a
white trash god.

What a horrid thought
To think I may die unknown
Only to become recognized
Beyond the wistful will of death,
Not because I'd miss out
On the fame akin to fluorescent bulbs,
But because I'd be eternalized as
The straws of my words,
Not sun-gleam of my being.

Bob Dylan’s hats mean more to me than a requited lust for fame.
On our screens over the summer months,
with it’s logo slapped obnoxiously onto the water cooler -
covering more pressing concerns.
As people rant and rave, the so called stars of the show are prominent for a matter of days.
In their fifteen minutes of fame they become better recognised than a man called Dave.
Some are hated for things they have said or done.
trending on twitter and being memed from day one.
But as the winter solace rolls into place
Everyone forgets the familiar face
that pranced and clapped on morning TV
What was his name again who was he?
What once was a Dave is more like a Huxley or Mort.
He was far too easy to replace, when fame hit abort.