Joseph
Fonseca
The American
Century
The numbers make
for cold calculations and lazy embraces
I'm in your house, on your couch,
beached like a whale
You've been giving your kissing
disease, again
Spread your keys among the guests
of your party
One to the cellar, one to the
front door, one for your safe
And one for your chastity
chest
I watch the bottles of liquor
drain to the carpet like seventies shag
Feet dancing, change jangling and
the silence shattered
We're pretty ugly, but you make us
beautiful
Just by the glancing touch of your
glass fingers along our cheekbones
With all the grace of Gatsby
giving in to the bullet
I can see it happening before the
fire can suck away our air
You crumbling down the stairs of a
black and white movie
Shimmering like a blood diamond,
you're bleeding from the mouth
While they stare and gawk and
check their watches
I've got your head in my lap like
so many hearts in your purse
Mark one, powder and blush, sell
the story to the tabloids
Sad Boy Falls For the Fallen Star
of Hollywood
You don't make eye contact, the
world looks at you
Even if it comes at the cost of
your lungs, you'll have last laugh
Last affairs, last mistakes, last
exits and last cigarettes
Your sweat has soaked through my
pant legs before I realize
Even now you're still using me, a
pillow for your death bed
Memories of a Life with the Whore of
Babylon
It was
the critical reception of your failed masterpiece that
sent you crawling into my bed
The notices in the paper made promises you couldn't keep and
analogies that didn't read right when taken out of context
I caught you on the phone with your mother, she of the ignorant
persuasion, telling you about father and his brand new luxury
sedan
You couldn't even look me in the eyes
"This is my life" you said and I thought, it had better be,
because you're living it, getting it all stretched out in all
the worst places
You won't forgive me my narcissism but all you want is a pretty
boy on your arm
"Sugar, honey, sweetie," you say, giving me diabetes with your
insincerities while trying so hard to make it through an entire
evening with me and my empty bottle of wine
"Do you think?" You ask me, leaving the holes in your
inquiry for me to fill in with praise and adulation and other
synonyms for your vanity's nourishment
I step out of your doorway so your silhouette can greet the
world of flashing eyes looking to see how the puppet dances
without her strings
But the tethers of your master never truly release you
Not as long as there is someone willing to write in their
review, "Say what you will of her talent, but it cannot be
denied, the camera sure loves her."
I'm Joseph.
You can call me Lyttleton. I live a normal
life.
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