An Adjacent Metropolis
by james bezerra
We are the hot and cramped stipmalls. Spray tan and mascara smear in this heat. Asphalt and concrete. The thick 101. This isn't Hollywood dreamscapes beneath palm trees swaying over our success. We’re usually quietly mourning something. Potential pornstars among the homeless. She thinks she’s making it because her agent down in Studio City starts convincing her that directors need her to strip. We that survive this scab over as our penance and exploit the amateurs casually. Patiently a anxiety in the periphery will be pushing on the heart. A BMW on these streets is better than grace. Many fuck away the empty feeling. We drive three clogged freeways to move ourselves through the gaping Pass while going broke on gas. All the water disappeared down into pools. But all the starving potential lies here.
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