It is a Monday night and it is 

a night for dancing. In his room, he 

is singing ‘she’s a queen’ – 

Bowie knows that. He 

sings this and signs that

to a mirror, by way of which he 



that it is his satin, street 

and strutting, his rococo legs stamping

sweetly each step, stardust songs swinging where  


     hanging from spiral streetlights

come the friends of friends, howling him adoration –  

    oh! how

            Divine! more than quite! – 

   how fantastic! – 


here! kicking on the powder-pink pavement,

he spits up a roar,

here! a pearl which bears no burden; therefore

it greets these friends with gratitude –  


here he is love 

            (I am a purple, a sidereal shade, with intention)

here he is beauty 

            (I am sinuous like a kiss at the corner of the night)


before it is heard, the 




styptic muscle shackle bang on glance on no! 

clash cracking A man gets  

his swear asks, what he is 

doing looks up down stymie

eye expel expelling his satin in response

shut off crawling laid down music

a while –


for a bit – 


I swear, 

    I could do better than 

that – 


He’s not ashamed. With the right people, with the right timing – 


He’s not ashamed but 

he is considering, again, not singing songs in bright blue jeans. 

Illustration by

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.