Courtney Pruitt used to be a journalist, but she always hated not being the story. Now her words are the focus, the syntax and similes carrying more weight than headlines and nut graphs.

However, Courtney’s writing hasn’t lost its newsworthy quality. Unlike the lofty poets that also call Los Angeles home, her muse isn’t some ethereal bullshit. Her inspiration emerges from striking social experience with people she has met on her travels through life. These encounters serve as fodder for poetry that is both poignant and passionate. Telling of our time while bemoaning the pitfalls of a generation that never existed without the internet.

“I think that growing up as offspring of the cold war, we tend to evoke a jaded pessimism toward a government whose reckless appetite for war has enveloped us our entire lives,” said Courtney. This disenfranchised motif is ever-present in the beats of her poetry.

If you read her work and think that she’s talking about you; you’re right. You can be selfish. A narcissist in your relation to the swift lines and utilitarian couplets. But the real commercial payoff of Courtney’s writing is that you don’t have to read the terms of service. Her art is egalitarian. It’s diplomatic. It’s by the people, for the people.



I realized we were born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys
fed by Arabia’s oil.
Eyes closed, ears behest
to broadcasts, we
could NOT protest.

THAT was the beginning
of our MASS destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly
thanking our stars:
10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
When in grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on OUR side
The imminent threat,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorum
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone’s freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, we were
told to hail red, blue,
and especially WHITE.
Forgetting our roots…
Because the Ellis Island trip was OBVIOUSLY cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government,
and damned Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance,
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Sadam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a SHAM feeding FLAMES,
angsty teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
fuck Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation’s youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a Guerilla war
fought in VAIN!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!


So when we heard last week,
that we are losing control
of the Middle East,
and that Al-Qaeda,
is FAR from weak —
We just turned off our TV’s
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
built on HATE.

So when you tell me, hun,
“We were both born in 1991,”
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.


Artist To Watch


Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the
pavement blur.

Don’t ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.

In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop’s on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.

the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
Nike said so.

Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn

How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you’re a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I’ll get you publicity.

What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.


About Dustin Hollywood

Professional Photographer & Founder/Editor-In-Chief of Nakid Magazine: Dustin Hollywood DustinHollywood.com Instagram.com/DustinHollywoodPhoto Twitter.com/DustinHollywood Facebook.com/DustinHollywood

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: