Somewhere in LA

By Douglas Frey



Forever mesmerized,

here I stand.

These tears of blood I silently cry,

fall, upon my open hand.

Entranced by that sleekly moving ribbon of light;

so seductive it is, as it constantly moves toward my beloved LA,

our City of Angels,

to her, I can only show my love at night.

The revealing light of dawn only seems to show her scars.

It’s then, that I can feel and see her misery…

Lilith, only cries for me.

The deafening silence of a lonely gunshot,

echoed in the mindless violence of another desperate “have not”.

Blood, sweat, tears of agony rage and pain;

this horror’s all around me,

…yet this gangster’s humble tongue remains forever so quietly tied.

It’s from deep within my velveteen dream’s dark and lonely slipstream,

alongside the silent, solemn ghosts of my dead friends,

and the shrieking whispers that only ever define the humble crying of the dying,

that I, life’s thief, seem to move most freely.

But only at night,

beneath the cover of her shadows,

the sole passenger in Hell’s limousine;

through purgatory’s blackened, one-way glass,

I stare out upon the evil predators;

…my targets.

They’ll never know their fate.

Nobody knows,

for they cannot see the beast,

lying patiently, within my faintly beating heart,

…waiting.

So in lust I am with the random feel of the dark,

where the quirkiness of chance is always so played out,

much like the blindman’s brush,

as it produces unseen art.

All of this forbidden, violent, beauty,

just for us,

has been strewn with what it seems to me can only be,

manic, playful, glee…chaotically,

…by a somewhat hellish imp of fate,

upon these sticky, mean streets,

temptingly paved in gold,

flanked on both sides, by pretty trees that only breathe cyanide,

forever bathed in that eerie, blue, neon light.

Of this…

…LA’s seemingly endless night.

Through that opened door I walk,

gazing helplessly upon another crackhead’s always screaming child,

now lying cold and still upon a filthy bed,

…with only mommy’s syringes for toys.

Beside her lies the always-present specter,

Of only an early violent death,

suffered by the ghetto’s little girls and boys.

All of them crying out,

begging…

for just a little more of that unattainable forgiveness of yours.

Just who are you?

The all-knowing and all powerful “them”.

The eternally vague ones responsible for so much of “all that is not good”.

Always on time…

false fame and ignorant pride your vibrant badges,

displayed so prominently for all but you to see.

But, I do see you,

all you are,

all you ever will be…

That forked-tongue, silver-spooned progeny,

of a crystal king and hollow queen.

Yeah, foolish one,

please, let me be your guide.

Watch patiently,

as another pseudo-king’s soon to be dead eyes roll.

See those fading whites line up with only emptiness…

…forever now only piercing the glimmer.

Behind that veil,

Eternally,

…we live with only what you steal.

LA…

my city of only the lonely angels;

to her, I’ve become her priest.

Silently,

in words that only I can hear,

she’ll now confess.

Flash-floods,

Flash-fires,

Earthquakes,

Mudslides.

So much life taken down into the ground.

It’s only ever death she deals,

to those of us who live within that crystal world where life cannot be found.

Drive-by shooters,

Cracked-out looters,

…with them, the demon stays.

You see, death is a bunker,

…everyone pays.

Will it be the husbands of the ones they’re sleeping with?

Or will it be the woman of their dreams who dishes out to them what’s left?

Naïve little lambs;

foolishly, they feel so safe within their false cocoons,

…blinded by their egos.

None will ever see that wicked spider,

as in her deadly night,

…patiently she looms.

Killer-cops,

and cop-killers;

for them there’s always just a little more room at the morgue,

the warehouse for her dead.

Here and only here,

…no more tears are shed.

Cry how?

Where cry form?

Like a blood red bird,

with wing, them and jutting bone,

I weep only into dead leaves.

On an arrow,

memories pass right on through;

each tearing out just a bit more flesh.

Stepping out, I enter midnight

Again, on her long and violent trip

Forever slangin’ and bangin’,

or dyin’ tryin…

Lovingly held within her seductive grip.

I cry upon a black, sacred, garden of thorns;

cool wind on my sweat.

Only a thought of my other,

so real in my mind’s eye;

really no more than just a whisper though,

…shown to me with another dreamscape’s lie.

Deep within my stone-cold mind,

within this house of a thousand glass rooms,

all of what I’ve lost,

…sadly, I now find.

I can always find a baby,

peacefully asleep at its mother’s breast.

Tomorrow though,

it could be at home.

So alone in a dumpster,

with the souls of all the rest.