Bowie Died

(A Poem on Bowie’s Death)
The room where Bowie lived is a mess, and the maid will empty the tray and the glass, collect the trash, throw it over the stoop, because Bowie lived and he made a big whoop. And you’re like, don’t mourn him, I’ve seen the dossier, he was early gay, he was wrongly gay, he was a composer of puny means, he was just a poser, he slept with teens, he slept with a ‘tute, made a Nazi salute, a pretentious faux-fruit in a sparkly suit. A British rocker? Oh give me a break here; were you really expecting a Quaker? With the views and lifestyles those babies espoused they’re all fit to be neutered, spanked and deloused, they’re all fit to be tied and drowned in Lysol – yet they built a culture-bearing wall. And you looked at that wall, their guitars darkly strumming, on the nights when no one but pimples were coming, and you stuck to the wall your schedules with tacks, and now Bowie died and he won’t come back, and the waters of Lethe rushed through the locks, and now Bowie sank, the glammest of rocks, and you painted that wall a sensible blue, and now Bowie died and so will you.

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One thought on “Bowie Died

  1. Pingback: David Bowie: A Tribute to the Legend | thewomenofletters

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