swimming with horses,
running with dungeons,
playing with dragons,
hiding behind a fake forcefulness,
like a synthetical lioness,
that artificialness,
fake greatness,
fake lustiness,
fake lustre, lying on them
like a mattress, or
with covered up, less
than what really up to
in them minds

when i write
i always find myself wishing that i wrote like Lana del Rey,
making even the simple things seem extraordinarily grand, to be able to glamorize what is sometimes a painfully normal life
i want to touch someone's skin
and write about it in a way that makes someone feel as though they're touching velvet
i want the kiss we shared
to linger on someone's lips like the taste of their favorite chapstick
i want to write about love
so that in turn someone will lust for what i already have
i want to write about my years of pain and isolation in a way that makes someone want to rip their own heart out and offer it up to me on a platter made of shimmering, sterling silver
which, of course
i'd have to refuse
because what would a writer be if surrounded by love and admiration they knew was real, that they didn't doubt for even a second
although, the sensuality of the circumstance might be tempting
an artist without eternal, incessant suffering
is merely a wolf in sheep's clothing
or a fool who thinks he's a king
they simply aren't built to last

i want to write about my mid-night thoughts and for someone to think: Lana would be proud

Progress
by Michael R. Burch

There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.

Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.

Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.

The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.

Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...

and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.

NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time he/she spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******

The doctor had said she looked tired today
the tests had shown it wouldn't go away
her looks might go, her living could too
how would she cope, what could she do
she was late arriving for the photo shoot
in her tight blue jeans and high heel boots
the make up artist did her thing
and soon she was ready for anything.

She looked so good as the flash gun fired
with her make up on she no longer looked tired
the photographer told her what to do
with her long blonde hair and eyes of blue
she knew how to ****** the camera lens
each exposure was her latest friend
it was clear to see she photographed well
even though she just felt like hell.

She knew how to grace a magazine cover
knowing how to look, more than any other
often she would be the centrefold
in a magazine, that was never under sold
she still always had that look in her eye
even when she wanted to just sit down and cry
Something had to give, something had to change
it was clear to see things couldn't stay the same.

But that was then and this is now
there's always a way to survive somehow
gone are the looks that brought her fame
but she earns her living, just the same
now she works as a photographer herself
taking pictures for the magazine shelves
and she knows what to tell the girls to do
with their long blonde hair and eyes of blue.

Can't you see the signs?
Couldn't you see I was losing myself to the darkness?
I know I didn't reach out
I know I didn't open up
But I tried to show through
one way or another.
Because no matter
how hard i tried to disguise it,
I wanted someone to see the
pain and reach out.
Some of you did care,
but no one showed enough care

But who am I to blame,
I didn't show myself enough care .
I should've cared enough for myself
to not give up on myself.

I should've relied on myself,
rather only on others.
To care enough of myself,
but now I've gone to sleep
and I see no save.

Clear, glimmering, white.

His hand claims the sequined waist
That he earned to hold with jewells.

Cut, polished, sewn.

The chandelier above emanates
The ones hung from her ears.

Strung, tied, boxed.

Not as much a girl's best friend
As a man's trophy wife ticket.

Bought, gifted, worn.

The definition of insanity isn't always doing the same thing and expecting different results

Sometimes, it's believing in a glamour

and at the end
when you're broken
scarred, fractured
and penniless
finally seeing the numerous curtains fall
finding that the creature you've had faith in
shattered everything