 The girls on the streets all look sad in this golden crested little town.
Why is that?
Isn’t this the town of dreams?
Yeah, but it comes with a price.
It’s a town that never does anything and yet it takes all the credit.
A place that promises so much, but never has a thing to say, or a care in the world.
There’s no memory here.
No dream for itself but the dreams of others.
And all over the world you talk about a place you’ve only seen in re-runs. Immortalized for its’ vice and deified for its’ carnage.
There’s money in the air there, all you have to do is reach up and grab it.
In basements, garages, parking lots, empty lots, school yards, town cars, back rooms and more; Diamonds are fashion from expectations and fortified on a steady diet of simple lives and red carpets.
The ejaculating zeitgeist and night vision.
Culture is a punch line, an emotionist blood in the water.
The sharks here play games you can’t fathom.
But you flock here anyway.
On college money and credit cards.
Spend a week bullshitting yourself that it was all true, all of it, just to watch in horror as it all falls to pieces under the gravity of reality.
The starry eyes fade as it dawns on you; nothing is guaranteed.
You were part of the great divide; the chosen, or the frozen.
Now you’re miles away without a net. Your college money is a collage of debt and your credit cards are all snapped in fucking half.
Time to wander a landscape bereft of mercy.
This is now the back lot of your failed movie, a waking dream re-written without your permission.
The real luster, the soft focus, the soap-opera vision is just the hindsight of a world who’s been lied to, of sad surfs, and untouchable lords.
You took a chance didn’t you?
But chance didn’t have a part for you this time around, maybe next life.
And you can’t even walk home.
The girls on the streets all look sad in this cardboard, cut out little town.
No wonder.
That’s the only thing here that’s real.
The gold is for fools, and paradise is lost but the hungry have never bothered with the cost.
Day by day they fall away like rose petals, like ink that won’t dry or fade. It just runs wild down cracks and crevasses, grooves and folds.
So I hope someone saves you before you get cold.
I really do.
Because the girls are all sad in this little black book.
If you don’t believe me, take a closer look.
If you can.
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