The air was crisp in Los Angeles,
and it smelled different than anywhere else,
it was laced with thousands of flawed dreams,
threaded with false notions of stardom,
So we left,
setting sail for the great below,
with all the talking heads
There was the head master,
the big daddy,
the great puppeteer,
untouchable,
unparalleled in greed and deception,
There was the head mistress,
the comedienne,
the pivot,
the starlet perfect in her imperfections,
There was the head gossip,
the puppet,
and on some days,
his marionette,
with her open ears,
and her sealed lips,
There was the showman,
the tramp,
the player,
the other man,
the other of the men,
There was the auteur,
the inventor,
Edison's other half,
inching his way backstage,
to pull the strings,
But it was going around,
something,
the wrong kind of sentiment for such close quarters,
Until he saw green,
and then he saw red,
not spots,
And he turned to the right,
at the wrong time,
Until they tried to erase him,
triumphantly,
and without conscience,
And that was all the news that was fit---
Let me be the first to leave a comment! Congratulations. Keep writing!
ReplyDeleteCongrats!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteWhat an interesting piece. How did you come up with the name Oneida? I looked it up, not knowing much about it, and saw that it is a word describing the Iroquois Indians. Does this relate in any way to your story?
ReplyDeleteI love the imagery you've created, as if each of these characters plays a role in a much larger menagerie of sorts. There is an odd, circus-like atmosphere you've created, but the ending was lost on me. In the end, the man that saw green, then red, is someone who made money, then died because of it, right? Was he murdered for his riches?