Pride

By

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 

means 

.

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 

sound 

of 

.

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Your email address will not be published.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.