Hollywood Happy

Get up on your feet off the curb toward the center of the street,

kneel concrete,

one of the cars won’t veer out of its way and you can die like you lived, begging for meat on sunny days.

 

All these waitresses are getting old, hair flaky, faces sagging like withered birthday balloons,

it’s not as sad as some things but it isn’t pretty, poor souls always end with prescription addictions, 

unintentional children in titular buildings, 5 mortgages, 15 shillings, lower shelf tastes and regretting decisions. 

 

But you make it if you try, that’s the only way, the other way’s to die because LA sparkles with a thousand seedy guys’ eyes circling the city hungry for exposure – the angel takes you into its arms and breathes its life into your lungs until you’re coughing up the Le Brea mud, smog like shitty chronic, nightclubs that all look the same screaming because you saw Macauley talking to Charlie Sheen again but it’s beautiful watching people crumble in that sick way humans stare at tragedy and when you go there and you already have everything it’s fun to laugh at the waitresses talking about commercial advertising or the bar back asking if you know who and who, but even then it’s not what it was, Malibu and heroin and young heiress girls with personal drivers in the Oceania Hotel in Santa Monica for four hours and her voice is all flowers.

 

The ocean is blue and the sky is blue and the sun is your burning life in traffic for five hours in your honda looking at everyones benz but it’s alright if you’re doing what you’re supposed to, Plato or Socrates or whoever said that shit and I believe it so actresses that will never act and musicians that won’t sing and writers that can’t write all have their guts filled with this acrid smoke and it’s coming out of their faces making me choke, blooming up into the sky with the smog and the times and learn from a book how life here is strange and come out and try it before you’re too old and sick to engage, the city is so cruel with its love it’s wonderful and brave and heroic and strange, Jim Morrisons’ in leather pants walking down sunset deranged on a mix of Los Angeles and mediocre cocaine.

 

All this talk makes me want to swim into the ocean and lay floating on my back staring up at the clouds, no more rain, no more fucking trees and granola and people that don’t know how to dress driving corollas- in fact I’m going back to Beverly, Canon and Wilshire my penthouse isn’t rented, please, It’s not ostentatious when you have to have it and it beckons me I want the plush beauty and the money is weaponry, Chateau Marmond doing bumps of ecstasy filling my eyes with so much love you know it can’t possibly be heavenly so lay back and enjoy the ride because it’s all or nothing, poor disgusting or rich with nothing, LA is a city without empathy but if you become cold enough you can enjoy its decadency. 

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