Hollywood Mus(e)ic

It must hurt to be him. A Sun King embalmed into one, specific love.
Married to the widow and jumping coasts as if all things were fine
full floating feral, of all things – ferociously virile and written into
the strategy of superior design,           he wanders the streets again,
 
Only one man counts cars as monsters on the highway, embellishing
his toes in turquoise polish on the dashboard, mimicking the screech
of windshield wipers without realizing he’s doing it, only one man
piles Reese’s cups into his mouth, soars down hill on a bike without handles,
and swings from balconies by thinning limbs            Hollywood muse
                                                                                               Hollywood muse
                                                                                               Hollywood muse
leave the music behind and retire – stay here, don’t skip continents for strangers,
leave the music behind and retire – stay here, when you say this is all I want I forget
that sometimes what you want is not all you need, and you crave idolatry in secrecy
& the barrage of fanatics babbling about whichever one of your infinite bands, when
I couldn’t hold a tune to blurry images of monkeys and naughty queens hightailing it
to Africa to sleep under an opera about mathematicians – stay here!, do what you say,
be Californ-i-a                                     classic LA, husband of Pacific sea and blush lights,
be the magnitude of your own fuck,                and fuck everyone else who isn’t us
you’re living in a remix, but I’m the original.

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