Fuck Me Up, LA!
Los Angeles, you feel like falling in love, which feels like dying, which must mean I’m alive. I am lonely. Within your dusty heat, surrounded by palm tree prison towers, is a solitude I haven’t felt before. I have lovers up and down the East Coast, from stoic Massachusetts to absurdist Florida. Here in Hollywood I don’t know a soul but I swear to you there was once a line of people waiting for me to give them a New York minute. Walking the stretches of Sunset Boulevard, where I live, right in your beating, bloody heart, I yearn to reach out and grab every manicured hand, graze each perfect polished face. Give me something, someone, let me plant a root in your infertile land. This rocky soil is crumbling beneath my feet and I’m sliding down this mountain, and hell I thought I liked hiking until now. L.A. L.A. L.A. L.A., like a song repeating in my head all day, I’m obsessed with your gilded face and the sadistic smile I see in your sidewalks. I collapsed on your hot concrete and melted into your taunt skin, sinking into your embrace that brought me no comfort.
I fell asleep in Boston in my best friend’s bed with Bob Dylan’s Bringing it All Back Home spinning on the record player, snow and chill and sentimental sadness in the air. Suddenly I'm here on your hot shore, the Pacific washing over me, but I never really woke up.
Beneath the super blue blood moon, sitting in a circle of dirty, smiling girls in the desert sand, I released the pain I brought with me from 3,000 miles away into the flames. I release the wretched whims of the heart that made me end up in this godforsaken city in the first place, I release snow covered hills where I screamed into the night somewhere in Massachusetts, I release torn blood-stained underwear balled up and left in an East Village trash can, I release Long Island heroin dealers in fast food parking lots again and again and again, I release I release I release. The moon told me I’m ready to let go, burned up my problems so fast I was left empty and ready to fill myself up with you. Make ready, Los Angeles, you glistening gutter trash, beautiful wreckage, your holy land mirage lures me to your radiant warmth.