the loneliest place in the world
is santa monica
surrounded by the beautiful people
the beautiful people
without a hand to hold
or an eye to catch
or an ear to hear.
the waves must catch california sun
and shaft it into forests of seaweed
between the barnacled columns
maybe to everyone else
but i've seen waves before
their endless repeat
and the waters here are greyish and cold and flat
like stale cola.
the ferris wheel goes round
and the screams and laughter
i will mock in my empty dreams with a sardonic grin
as though it makes me somehow above them all
above them all
and maybe i am
dead moon over a living world
dead moon paled in
santa monica
golden california
sky.
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