“Wet Dreams” by L. K. Thayer

when it rains in LA
all the honesty creeps up
it stares you dead in the face
it can’t hide in the blow out
of sunlight
it can’t hide behind
sunglasses or tinted windows
it can’t hide or duck
the on coming blows
the hangover from the night before
has you in a vice
and it squeezes the truth
from the marrow of your pores
and you ask yourself
why am I hear
you feel like damaged goods
like the bruised peaches and pears
you find at the farmers market
bruised by rejection
from everybody but your dog
and your manicurist
and you go to her just to be touched
as she massages your
hands and shoulders
like you wish a lover would
and the rain comes down
on your rotting dreams
washing away all the nonsense
until the sun comes out
and everything looks
like you can believe in it again
like the lies you tell yourself
about how young you look
and you turn around
and next thing you know
you’re having another birthday
and thinking as you blow out the candles
I wish life was piece of cake

L. K. Thayer

(from my new book “whores don’t kiss” coming soon!)

© 2011

“Whores Don’t Kiss” by L. K. Thayer

I used to live off Sunset & Formosa
in Hollywood
for a few years
I don’t know
it could’ve been longer
it could’ve been shorter
I don’t keep track
of time too well
down the street was and still is
The 7th Veil Strip Joint
back in the day when you saw
10 to 12 hookers on every corner
doing intimate things with men
without getting intimate
I would walk down to my favorite
neighborhood bar
and always play
“Tell It Like It Is” by Aaron Neville
on the jukebox
I’d have my song lyrics on me
have a few drinks
and start singing them
a capella in anyone’s ear
I had the songs
and the songs had me
I wrote them after a break up
after a nervous breakdown
after all, it was better than
empty sex in an alley way
in the back of anywhere
of course, I made sure I fit some of that in too
I miss the ladies on the corner
it gave this town more depth
more soul without the heart
in this town where fame is
the drug of choice
wondering how to get it
how to score it
how to become
a household name
like Ajax or Swiffer or Rice-a-Roni
this town is like a giant melon baller
that keeps scooping out your guts
to make an ambrosia salad
for the masses to snack on
eat it while its
fresh, it gets old fast
and you have to toss it out
like whores turning tricks
for their pimps
we all have to answer to somebody
somebody’s always calling the shots
but you can’t give it all away
you’ve got to keep your cards
and they will fuck you
but just remember
whores don’t kiss

Photo & Poem by

L. K. Thayer

© 2011

“Idol Worship” by C. Jean Pearlstein

I saw them
Before the three phony stars
Whose shit stinks like everyone elses
A chance to come to Hollywood
Be melted into malleable puddle

Hollywood, just south of my home, north Hollywood
Home to human trafficking, pedophilia
Porn, S&M shops, whoring,  wifebeating
And every illicit drug on the planet

Homeless youth broken, wander the streets
Boys and girls sell their ass and give
Blow jobs for a pittance

Powerful men and stage struck mothers
Complicit in offering up fresh cunts
Ensure the ready supply with promise
Of stardom
Kardashian Brittany Paris notoriety

Not talent, hard work, years of training
To be used , fucked, fucked up, fucked over
Die on the street skid row
Run down room.

Predators feed the media blitz
500 channels 24/7
A fresh supply of meat
Arrives daily on Greyhound
Hitched trucks
Airplanes accompanied by
Celebrity obsessed parents

I say, for what?
I say, why not?
Lead the calves to the holding pen
Fatten them with unreachable fantasies
Herd them with penis prods
Down the chutes
To be slaughtered
And fashioned
Into the Golden Calf

C. Jean Pearlstein

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2011

“DRIVING MY RED CLUES” by Judi Kaufman

Clue, clue, two clues, boom, boom, red, red.
Hollywood hills are filled with hundreds of sassy C’s and red high heels.
I am driving towards the North Face of the phony Hollywood sign.
I have seen so many couples fucking under the H.
Hollywood and vine agents and lawyers desperate to close every deal.
Smiles are all crooked as the drunks dive into every diner with red leather booths.
Highland Blvd. at Hollywood talk frankly about the Sound of Music.
LA Phil plays and keeps score of the affairs of the hearts.

Judi Kaufman

Photo by Alexis Fancher

All Rights Reserved

JFK 2/24/10