You were the host of fine idols: of long lashes, lush lips, and luxurious lots.
You kept them entertained, offering your abundance like rapturous rosé.
They were gods, but you were higher, a Universe in a pink suit,
The distributor of party drugs and liminal nights that kept the magic within your mansion’s walls.

But when their champagne had been spilled over the marble floor,
Chipped and yellowing like an old wedding dress,  
When gilded lilies tarnished and their fragrance reeked of copper,
You knew that this crystalline escapade was coming to an end.

The scent of stale cigars flowed over you like the perfume of the girls you once invited into your bedroom.
Your satin robe had been eaten away by moths,
Ripped along the edges of your pockets;
They are full of melted silver: no, mercurial lies.

Gatsby, darling-dearest, you need to release your hand from about her waist.
Your aching agony will soon be resolved.
Take a dive in the pool, old sport,
And maybe, just maybe, your mansion will crumble around you into a glorious disaster,
A masterpiece of desolation and success.