The city of angeles is no stranger to love. The problem is the brand of love sold in Lost Angeles is manufactured on film and marketed like microfiber rags on daytime television. It fucks with the heart this doin’ time in Hollyweird. But the heart gets what the heart wants. Even the plastic canyons can’t fuck with that.
This is a collection of love poems that were marked with a return label from some agent who worked with Nicholas Sparks before The Notebook. Copies of these poems can be found in the gutter outside of that one liquor store on the Sunset Strip by The Viper Room. I once read one of these poems to Ryan Cabrera in a WeHo bar and he said they were ‘cool’. These are the lost love poems from Hollyweird by Evan Ponter.
SURGEON’S GENERAL WARNING
Maybe I’ll settle down
when my brain’s not so easily scattered
constantly contemplating the days
when our love was the only thing that mattered
we grew like trees in the summer with acid under our tongues.
we withered like leaves in the winter. bones low on serotonin.
your breathe tastes like alcohol through the recycled air
of an airplane.
your kiss smells like sins as your disappear
into the terminal.
Tomorrow came like a thunderstorm,
and when I woke up you weren’t there.
Maybe I’ll settle down
Maybe I’ll cut my hair
We love hard and fast like lightning
with eyes that burn like the cherry of my cigarette
Maybe I’ll settle down
Maybe I’ll start chewing nicorette
Addicted. I am.
And you, I will always abuse.
Maybe I’ll work on myself for a change
Maybe you can work on you too?
VESTIGAL APPENDAGE
you’re a vestigial appendage
like my appendix
you are there
but you don’t do anything for me
you just are, there
i wouldn’t die without you
you’re not necessary, necessarily
i can’t live without you
you’re a part of me, partially
you’re so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — “no” — lets end it
i’m so happy i never get to see you
i’m so unhappy you called
you’re like a fantom vibrate
i can’t believe you actually called
we’re a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage
holding onto what’s healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside
PARTICLE DECELERATION
Fast.
Matter-less.
Moving through the city like photons.
She’s never there like the stars…
muted gracelessly by carcinogenic light pollution.
Dark.
Empty.
Like a landfill where every day it’s fucking sunny.
CANDY CANE HAIR
What are we as human beings.
To continue this charade.
Feelings don’t reflect emotion.
A constant broken reproduction.
Something alien.
Stuffing toilet paper in our ears to avoid the sound.
Like a radio wave you reach me.
Through brick walls and curtain calls.
Never believing our names weren’t meant to be blazon in neon.
Your voice echoes through canyons.
Street lights and passersbys.
From dandelion pistols.
From candy cane hair.
I found you like a fossil.
Buried deep in my past.
Gasping for air.
Breathing resentment.
“I think you should go.”
“I think you should stay.”
Forever.
BY EVAN PONTER // INSTAGRAM + TWITTER
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