“Sorry, not sorry,” says the nature of change
Brought through with cameras and champagne on the brain
Sometimes I wonder how you handle it
New York is a drowning city
What a pity -- strangers
Lose themselves in the noise a bit
But know your clothes, your face
The smell of Chanel
And cold bedsheets

Keeps the mind’s peace and pieces  
Flittering on fame’s release
Hollywood’s a real scream
Isn’t it? Winding and navigating the museum of dolls
Please! Give a little more

In the room with the TV blinkers
Smile
And then you’ll mean something to me

Blue haze of taffeta and ballyhoo
Cold haze of taffeta and ballyhoo
***** burns the throat and is a heavy glory
Holds itself on your brain and the mirror’s a real thing
To illuminate inside and out and who
You are nothing short of a barbiturate queen
Take a breath

In the room with the TV blinkers
Smile
And then you’ll mean something to me

ha ha,
the shine is not seen, frothing at a dumpster now
noon by 11,
so it goes.

and what if it isn't a barbituate? and the senator is irate?
then you still stand among the folly and whisper
what they despise,
she cries like
lemons in dusk,

and I'm a deadly flower, picked and pricked. hallucinogenic, datura is a deliriant,
you will be
spinning in your kitchen for the next 10 hours and gurgling hymns
to Jehovah.

tip toe,
and put your feet on my lap,
let's watch a movie and drift away. the night is like a fire, just before the coals
give out,  the smoke
softly kisses your  
face, gently,
and with passion