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
Spreading 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 seventies shag
with 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