we left and buried you,
the sun remains in your grave
you starve artists and feed them
pilates and real estate
set-dressed with palm trees
and expensive craft service
method acting as an authenti-city
the fabrication makes us angry
you promised us too much
there’s scalpel-poked holes in our dreams\
you’re superficial, pornography-based
with a plastic, flat face and
valleys that lie between silicone tits
at the Beverly Hills Hotel
looking down at Hollywood’s hell,
that guts its residents dead with smears of pink
blood, dying the stars on the walk of shame
they all wanted to be shiny and true
yet you see them as martyrs
with latex skin from your penthouse view
so we moved to farms and cold places, still picking pimples
primping to arch our backs
craving the Justin Bieber pasta at Il Pastaio
and a Brazilian bikini wax
we wonder if you’re our mirror,
of society’s innermost desires
strung through the Sunset Strip
playing Toxic on loop
maybe that’s why we hate you so much
maybe you’re just a response to us
who wouldn’t want to be Lindsey Lohan,
20 and pretty
name-dropping, fame-clawing
staying at the Chateau Marmont?
we have a proposition,
(but please don’t photo shop it):
wrap our wounds in sequins,
we’ll trade out our kitten heels for six-inches
and drunk cry on the fourth of July in Malibu
just please keep the clubs open past two