This poem is about the death of Lana--
not the death of Lana Turner, but the guy
that was killed in her bedroom, Stompanato.
You remember that?
That must have been too long ago.
All right.
There was some gangster that was killed in her bedroom,
and I wrote this about it a long time ago.
It's called "The Death of a Lucky Man."
[LAUGHTER]
"They were seen, now and then--
by all the cameras--
very happy under the sun in Hollywood.
The brute stem flowered in her soil.
He starred on the wide screen of her eyes
and found the goddess without her makeup.
One afternoon-- they'd said, that boy's a lucky man!--
he awoke.
His great blood was wetting the bed.
And, beautiful, she came to court
dressed in a little grief, hot from the flame
upon the altar between her thighs."