Dark Lady Poetry - Joseph Fonseca




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.