HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to it’s lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, its all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


[ A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty. I write & curate at Morality Park. ]


[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

Trace the Fortunes-David Lohrey

The only President we’ve ever had who

Ignored Hollywood was George W. Bush. I doubt

That Meryl had him in for a strawberry brunch.

Did Ellen ever send him over a bottle of sparkling water?

Bush couldn’t have cared less; Barbara raised him

To stay away from trash. Up in Maine, the locals were rough.

He learned early. He learned the hard way.

Clinton was a star-fucker. He rented the Lincoln bedroom

To Charles Bronson, Streisand and, I’ve heard,

The President of Disney, possibly all on the same night.

The toilets were disconnected since their shit doesn’t stink.

But it does pile up.


By why turn on Hollywood?

It’s our salvation.

All social critics end up there, even Faulkner:

More recently Wallace Shawn, the playwright,

Whose trademark topic is selling out. Everyone falls for it,

Everyone wants a piece of the action,

Even if only a walk-on part in Woody Allen’s “Celebrity.”

Star power is irresistible. Obama wants a TV series.

His daughters have auditioned for “Girls.”

A starring role in “Breaking Bad: Part II” would help Biden

Forget his dead son.


No, really. I take it back. It’s jealousy,

That’s all. I’d love to be Goldie Hawn’s neighbor.

I’d love to wear a tux on the red carpet,

Rate a star on Hollywood Boulevard,

Be fitted for a Mickey Mouse costume.

It’s in our genes. All Americans, each and every one of us,

Dreams of being a star at the annual parade,

Waving to the crowd from the back of a convertible,

Receiving wild cheers and accolades from frenzied crowds.

My only question, my only hesitation is this:

How gratifying is it to be rich when everyone else is poor?

Is it any fun to be Mickey Mouse in the Sahara Desert? If ordered

By Disney’s CEO or the President of the U.S. of A.,

Would Donald Duck gun down his fellow Americans?

Would he mow us all down?

My guess is yes. Listen for his quack as it gets louder.

[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf.]