Untitled 2

Remnants of a Plastic City Rebellion stain the walls of everyday life.
Free of any commercial success.
Self styled suicides masturbate to Betty Page clone burlesque dancers spraying the walls with low brow murals to hidden gods known only to the lost.
In the holy gutters of Deep Ellum, washed clean by sleazy demigods in business suits, Mohawked winos scream for a fix of whatever turpentine you happen to have left over.
In art galleries no one sees, no one cares about what will be known as the last great scream into the starless bloody night lost in the great abyss of who gives a fuck.
So we drink garish concoctions of the vilest swill sweetened with the bitter tears of forgotten dreams and pray to a long lost dead beat daddy god for quick fix.
Life in Dallas is a cherry crowned with a razor wire chastity belt brought to you by Belo.
Observer alternative to what! what! dreams of ecstatic insincerity that fail to find the popshot.
Mad men shoving green cocaine coated wads of paper screaming fuck the proletariat babbling into crystal martini glasses about the grand ole days of Reagan.
And a poet long since gone mad cries out form on top of crooked teeth abandoned buildings about the sadness of it all.