chased...
on the end
of a golden string,
usually attached
to the latest
tabloid fodder.
a bait-and-switch personality,
pulling the carpet
out from under the feet of reality.
i see the golden string
becomes the rope
you swing from.
unloved, used...
a fat hollow log
swinging with the breeze.
it's enough
to stick your head
in an oven,
isn't it?
no?
come on now.
imagine the who's who at your wake...
is there a building big enough
to hold
your bloated corpse
and the throng
of b-list onlookers?
NB @ 12:00 AM
2 Comments:
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this is very "l.a." and i like it.
no?
come on now.
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