he was desperate: too in
love with the madness in his soul that came with
applause and with people
laughingsmilinglaughing at him; the concerts halls
smoked up with the devil
and the afterparties full of hands clapping
his shoulders because it was only
him making it.
and he had carved immorality into the drug-sick swaying
bodies in the clubs, the bass so loud you can’t hear
the women
screamingscreamingscreaming
(long dull yell, high whimpers, cut through it, cut through it)
in his backrooms and his screen. there are women always
lined up dusty on his shelves, and falling into the parts
that demand proof; the girls ripped
apart are worth the boast.
success is not dusty dawn mornings with his brothers. it is not seas
of nameless faceless
angels and ghouls waving crowns at his voice: it is not
the foreign girl crying at his lost innocence (so ironic, when he lost
it long ago.) Don’t you think
he looks like he killed a man? Because success
is only in the dark stage when he steps on alone
and they are screaming for him, alone,
and nevermind the screaming of the women, they are not
here.
What a nice dream, little boy. I hope they are
screaming for you now.
I hope you remember: that Gatsby
died
alone
at the end.
the last pavilion 