Love, in Celebrity and Excess

We had too much class for Marquee on Vegas Boulevard
where gray pigeons from the street, painted white,
were sold for paper gold as morning doves
and lies filled in the scars with stars for those fast fools
drunk on avant-garde, stinking of threesomes played at
"first" resurrections of billiard.

We fell into sobriety before rock-bottom took us there
in rolling hills of Bel Air, where dry spells of early winter
set tones of our affair; you were a splinter in my paw
and I was your suicide blonde bourgeois worth more
than the last printer on August 5th, per laissez-faire,
in 1962's New York Times Square.

We were a game for two; Gatsby and the wilted flower,
not up for literary review, nor lit by an emerald hue
in the darkness where your eyes might scour,
stretched across a million dollar view at some odd hour-
no, our sweet fondue was a tasteless medley of dejavu,
for you loved me, true, but I, not you.