Story Poem by Paul Ballinger   City of Angels (adult material)   In the Hollywood slums where tramps and bums   and the human dregs doth stay, they all found their way to old L.A.   from near and far away. Where the whores and pimps, the geeks and gimps   are hustling for their bread with the straights and fags, the hookers and hags   in the Land of the Living Dead. In the vacant eyes and open thighs   where nothing alive doth dwell, and the stench of death on every breath   gives forth its putrid smell, you'll find a shame that has no name   and a pain that has no end, born of need and human greed   where no one has a friend. You can fill your arm with heroin's charm   or fill your veins with speed; you can snort that coke till your will is broke   and cloud your mind with weed. Or, if you choose you can suck up booze   till your eyes are shot with red. But you'll sing your last song if you stay too long   in the Land of the Living Dead. In the tenement flats with roaches and rats   strange poets make their verse about some land so sweet and grand   far from mankind's curse. They shoot their dope and call it hope   and dream of that better place, till they've wasted away their final day   in some gutter on their face. Then the hags and crones all pick their bones   while some drifter steals their shoes, and these words alone decorate their stone:   "He's finally paid his dues." And the cops drive by with blood in their eye   lookin' for butts to kick, so they bust some gay who sucks for pay   and make him turn a trick. Or they grab some whore they've balled before   and spread her for a lay, then take her stash and all her cash   and tell her: "Crime don't pay!" And on the way back she heists some hack   and shoots him in the head; just another share of the old nightmare   in the Land of the Living Dead. The thieves and killers and rot-gut swillers   all live back to back with down-and-outers and revolution shouters   in run-down tenement shacks. Many walk the street, no shoes on their feet,   (it's mostly the old and the lame), whose only lust is for a bit of crust   to battle hunger's pain. While the hot-shot thugs with minds like bugs   prey on those wretched poor, then boast they're so tough, so mean and rough   till they're dead on some bar-room floor. Yeah, some think it's swell, some call it hell,   and others just live in dread, but most just pray they'll survive the day   in the Land of the Living Dead. And the up-town swanks all give thanks   they don't live that way; they've got their homes and pleasure domes   and money enough to pay. They drink fine wine and always dine   in the very finest places, and close their eyes to the tears and cries   on skidrow's wretched faces. They dress so neat from head to feet;   they've gold and cash to burn, for they make more loot on an MGM shoot   than an honest man can earn. But behind the scenes and movie screens   the difference is not so deep, for they do their drugs till they crawl like slugs   and into another bed they creep. They close their eyes and open their thighs   to every thrill they find and live their best dreams behind their screams   until their souls grow blind. On the boulevards and their fancy yards   they advertise their bread, but they're all the same in the endless game   in the Land of the Living Dead. ©Paul Ballinger Other Poetry by Paul Ballinger Paul Ballinger’s Short Stories   Website Home Page