Like James Dean,

he looked out onto the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

world champion, fighting for that which is right

beaten and bloody, fists unable to clench now, it seems.

struggling to remember the passion, the love, in spite.

Star Trek, Star Wars, cigars, girls in bars from Mars

the Queen had run to the madhouse by the gorge

while the King indulged himself  like his lizard hero

fleeing from the whorehouse of the corporate hell.

Like water through the fingers, slopped dollars and hope

as he screamed at the girl in the red suit, screaming back

martinis and the mindless self destruction of it all

time stands still in the realm of the senseless.

In the cold light of day, all he feels is numb

if this is hell, then where is the heat and the pain?

trying hard to get back that feeling he had in mountains

high above the clouds, at the peak of his insanity.

Copyright © 2000 Cheynestore/Ashley Cheyne