<<<Back to Andrew

Gatsby

Fiction, my mission neglected for weeks
In a pool of my own, so I backstroke in bleach
While the many may doubt Mr. Gatsby is me
I’m delusional now and believe I am he
Fog on my frames, turn saliva to steam
As I set my eyes free at the end of my beach
And they settle down softly collecting the gleam
Of a kind that in night, only darkness can bring

Gatsby was classy, no Gatsby was not
He championed an art all but I have forgot
In a room with a view, filled with absolute mobs
Only two ever glimpsed his ascent to the gods
Howling and spinning, to you he must seem
But a libertine hedonist shackled to dream
Haven’t nicks on my wrist, nor a ball at my feet
Just an image so clear it makes history freeze

Wishes, commitment, and books never touched
If it weren’t almost easy to give it all up
With the moon a deterrent, I hoist a red cup
At the ceiling, return to the way that it was
Defunct at the function, alive in my seat
At my desk among pens and the friends I don’t need
From the stack an old paperback begs me to read
Oh, I know him too well, so I’d rather not meet