The murders only mattered because they went down
in my sweet pea-with-a-bent-stem friend Daisy’s
neighbourhood. We could be sisters, shared shadowy origins
in la belle province, me foisted, Daisy adopted, blossoming
into a blonde princess, an adorable kook with a deadly Brooklynese
accent. We found ourselves and each other in Los Angeles, me
in the flatlands of Silverlake, Daisy on Lookout Mountain
Avenue, three blocks west of Wonderland, aspiring director
boy toy in tow. They felt safe, elkhounds barking out warnings,
cats indoors, hidden from roaming coyotes and rabid coons.
Daisy found LAPD poking through the ivy ground cover.
She knew of rats but their search was for body parts and clues.
Wonderland, the movie based on a true story, Val Kilmer still
too hunky to play geeky John Holmes, decidedly joe blow
as appearances go, which must explain his appeal.
Everyman identified, despite the grotesque cock.
No gun clubs on Daisy’s map of LA, even after the Coppola wannabe
split. Mattress and pillow a prairie of down, she bought a Colt. 45
to dream on. Statistics, shamistics, Daisy
had a plan to scare away intruders. She would shoot up
into the rafters where the dried red roses hung.
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