A bottle of Dom Perignon twisted against his dire lips
Already wired to the full moon, adamant entirely upon consuming his body-weight in crystallised disguise
No-one ever gets to see the real me…
A burning Woodbine cigarette carrying with it enough gusto to continue the God forsaken flow about to behold all of him
When will it ever let go…
Supposed to be this way, so they seem to say
Forever and an actor’s day
Utterly contemplative, purely sedative
Please, please suggest something else for me…
When will he ever get to see a real cure for his burgeoning sadness
A sudden lapse in concentration and the heady atrocity begins to start all over again
Turned on his head all over
When, oh when did they say it was okay to play the lost-and-forgotten, downtrodden part…
Twisted and tempted ferociously so by an all too treacherous part of his art – namely method acting
I’m so goddamn far out of touch…
Bile coming up every other way, about to pay for his every early a.m. sin
I need to try and distance myself entirely, don’t I?
Might be the right move to make, attempt as you may to take yourself right away
Or else we’ll be dealing here with just one other twenty-something somebody somehow managing to transform themselves into nothing but a star on that Hollywood walk of shame
Too easy to blame the paparazzi, isn’t it?

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