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.

Our Left Coast sighs in a stupor of red
from evergreen coasts to the casting bed.
Hollywood’s big leagues deal their fatal blow;
vapid perspectives from stars in the know.
Glamour holds court: socialite solutions
when celebrities talk revolutions.
But red alone would bring our nation harm
cut loose from white and blue—and should alarm
the audience, who pay to see their plays
while questioning their wanton West-coast ways:
Designer-reds, a stain upon our land
where red with white and blue ought take a stand.
Such fluff from the stage set who roll in dough
is Hollyweird yeast—rising now to show
beautiful and swelling irrelevance
unaware of its insignificance:
Hypocrite pretenders all paid to act
in films where decent values are attacked.

Let us turn then from Thespis‘ leering smile
to lace up cleats and run the gridiron mile
where other plays get tossed in endless zones
as commentators rave in heightened tones
while fools raise fists—then take the well-payed knee,
their pigskin antics sold to you and me.
****** a fat mike before their muscled face.
Note well the dull reaction, low as base.
These tattooed thugs make vain attempt, through speech
multitudes of more thuggish fans to reach.
The sad attempt to use their words in vain
lacks clear interpretation. Yall nome sain ?
The musclebound elect, who toss a ball
(as if their silly game was all in all)
should stick to sports; decline to state their views
lest fans their spectacle no longer choose.
Thus stars of field and screen steal every show,
and cause our dying culture worlds of woe.

The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,

she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,

gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic *******,

meanwhile resistance is still futile,

and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,

feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,

and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill *** whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,

and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,

or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,

because,

the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…

∆ LaLux ∆

Free link for new book: www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps

clutching my crumbling holy relic,
that trace of her final kiss
still threading heat through quivered lips,
rise to find shelter,
move it safe from noise and haze

stumbling through shadows,
like uneven, forgotten lumber
patching gut shot with used bandages
the faded, drunken hymns of heart flung sadness
hang along Cahuenga Avenue, old and overplayed
wilted spider silk across a concrete violin

each parking meter my next crutch,
arguing with stoic streetlights,
giving their cold flicker that same
blood stained sermon,
self same pity, worn and overused

I warned, I was wounded, the cut never sealed
Never bled, just trailed smoke.
it whistled in the wind some nights,
she knew, it was permission to leave
reading the eviction note
on a house that never had walls,

from edge of a coin- I’ll scratch out her name,
from a nightman’s club- the darkness can fall,
from the tear of my eye- she’ll melt away,
from the skin of my teeth- I’ll feel the dawn crack
and learn, again,
to crawl

Make Hollywood Great Again.
It's the next new slogan, sans the men.
It'll be like Jolly Olde England,
The Elizabethan style, if you get what I mean!
Inverse women bejewelled in cod pieces
Preying on the men.
Not in an English accent, but more American:
******** won't mean the same;
Cuckold won't make sense,
But all the phenomenal men we know
Will need to share the pants.