Lost Angels
Douglas Bales
down in the dirt writing
False hopes
& wasted dreams
litter the streets
in the shadows of fake
palm trees&saline
breasts
With mustard-gas smog
choking the masses
& turf-wars of gangs
descended from
Viet-cong violence
The elite don't shy
from the camera's eye
& there's always
a happy ending
The guns all shoot blanks
in Hollywood,
except on the streets
where mothers
buy groceries&cocaine
Holey men fill temples
with money of sadness
& sages grow fat
on the grief of strangers
& nothing can touch you
out in Beverly Hills
as long as there's credit
& an agent with clout
I wish you well, princess,
in your tower of plastic
the color of ivory
bleached in the sun
& I hope that you're happy
in L.A.-L.A.-land
surrounded by
fallen angels
