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SJG Jan 29
(The wind is whistling
Hear it now)

Did you see the ship float in unweathered?
Did you see the ocean solid, baby?

Did you feel Mercury rising?
Did you see it shine upon this priceless junk?

I saw blackstar projected upon the white wall,
Ascending like the happiest man.

I saw his writer's room,
A birdeye's view upon a rocky coast.

He asked me for a lighter.
He asked me for some light, baby.

He told me he was simply dying.
Dying to twist the knife, baby.

What's this Hollywood?
What this Hollywood do
That you and I can't?

Why this arrangement?
Why these stars on screen?

I could have grown up a killer.
I'd have barked the truth at ivory rooms.

I should have stirred things up somewhere.
I should have been an unhappy man.

The wind is whistling,
The song is sowing,
The tether has snapped loose.

The dog is dying,
The actor is crying,
The tether has spoken loose.

Oooooooooh. (Oh.)
Oooooooooh. (True.)
(This stupid house.)

Oooooooooh. (Oh.)
Oooooooooh. (True.)
(They think with their mouths.)

The novelist curves (True.)
Back upon himself (Tru-oo-ue.)
And the work reads like a cave painting.
True. (True.)
They've occupied the stage
Like improper little maniacs. (True.)
(True as blue.)

Tru-oo-ue.
I saw him cry in a music video
And that's the truth, I guess.

True. True. True.
I read such monotonus verse
From a critic dying to be heard
And begrudgingly respected.

"Truth is true!"
– (A hobbyist seeking a star
And a second verse.)

I saw blackstar on the bay.
I saw blackstar from a passing train.

I saw him on a talkshow,
Grinning like the unhappiest man.
I saw him on a lifted stage.
I saw him slip out from the ether.
----------
Well, that's great,
So you killed the ****?
Did it crow or miss the dawn?
Did you get out in your shoes?
Or limp bare-footed across the snow?

It's been forty weeks of this **** and schlock.
Dogs barking at some kid in management frock.
Five cameras, four lights, a backing track,
Your agent's sat on the line:
"It's the season to be talking smack."

Whoa.

Nice going, kid. Six star reviews are in.
Journalists are clapping and looking thin.
Such amusements. Duh.
Such amusement, begging beliefs. Duh.
-----------
Sued.
-----------
Boo. I've got your shirt.
I've got your shoes.
I've got your house.
I've got your past.

I've got your grace.

But I'm too dumb to form the words.
Like you, I am dumb.
It's a fallacy. It's a comedy.
It's a tragicomedy for some.

I shot a deer
Then I shot the deer's son.
No loose ends – a real professional at work.
I built a shrine.
I burnt the shrine.
I fell asleep in my jeans.
I woke up at 2am.
I wrote a song. It went:
----------
"Hey, genius!

Hey, genius!

Hey, genius?"
-----------
I stayed in and I wrote a song.
I stayed in and I wrote a song
From here to the heavens.

I swan around, feller,
Like a priest in a cashmere sweater.
Like a dog on a diamond chain.
Like a bullshitter with an acoustic guitar
Singing to you about the night.

And here, love, is God's love.
Three chords, a golden voice, and a muse
With an *** like a mule,
And a face like a slapped arrrrrrr

I swan around, feller,
Like the wine spoiling in your cellar.
Like baby's first love letter.
Like a classically trained actor
Phoning through Lear each night.

History, as they tell us from above,
Was a circus of love;
Performed by malcontents in search
Of a bridal suite, a night of sweat and smoke,
Panicked horses going for broke.

I swan around, feller,
Like an off-form fortune teller.
Like a joke at the dinner table
Which b-b-bombs.

I followed the ocean all the way to the river.
I panned a hunk of gold.
I shivered.
I froze beneath the rain:
"There's good work if you can find it, son."
"There's good work if you can find it, son, son,
son, son, son, son, son."
Diána Bósa Jun 2018
I am like those SETI-scientists,
clinging on radiowaves;
noise-melodies from outer space,
questing after truth with huge telescopes
and scanning the visible light with satellites,
seeking desperately the limits of worlds apart,
searching for signs of intelligent life
in the desired-to-know universe.
Just to communicate with the extra-terrestrial;
to achieve certainty: there is someone out there,
someone, who is different, yet alike,
who is able to speak my thoughts
without knowing my language,
who still can easily translate my feelings
into the secret programcode of the universe.
An astral-traveler,
who can tame the waves of gravity,
someone, who is faster than the speed of light
and could eat the distance between us.
To be my interstellar compass;
my one and true guidance,
to help me explore this unfathomed life.
Someone, as David Bowie sang at once,
who is able to believe the strangest things,
who is able to love the alien.
Gabe Ouellette Jan 2018
Week after week,
life drops the weak,
All of this strife makes us reek-
of depression, The Great Depression?
More of a depression of the Greats...
It started with Bowie, all these phonies,
mourn for something- someone they weren't around,
to witness or experience...
Never knew all of these people talk about, I don't think they did either...
Wrote this about a year ago.
aurora kastanias Jan 2018
This is ground control
I sneaked in to give you a call,
it’s been a while and I yet wonder
are you still floating ‘round your tin can?

Since you launched in sixty-nine
not much has changed on planet Earth,
though Voyager one has left the system
recording sounds of Interstellar Space.

Its batteries are running low
but then other probes are on their way
rest assure, they are not searching for you
you’ve been forgotten long ago.

Scientists still question whether
indeed there is life on Mars,
planning missions to get there
we’ll leave in fifteen years or so.

Some are drawing domes forsaking
tragedy, creatively painting our escape.
Mickey Mouse has packed his suitcase,
left Minnie waiting in a bar.

Modern telescopes point to discover
exoplanets not too far, just in case,
some residing habitable zones
orbiting nearby stars.

This is ground control
I hear footsteps in the corridor,
have to run will call you again
until then I’ll keep taking care,

of your Diamond Dogs.
On space talking to David Bowie
Xander Aug 2017
"Rebel Rebel" rings in my ears as
we drive on a haunted road
at 10:00 at night.

"Hand of God - Outro" sticks to me,
a roach on tape,
as his hand meets mine
and passes me a cigarette.

"Sober Up" gets him humming along
gets him tearing up
when we look up off the concrete and
name the stars.

"Requiem" is on my mind today
for he told me about those from
his past
and present
and future

"80's Films" is on repeat this morning
and I look through my photos
to see one of him
smiling and
laughing and
in love with life.

The first time in years I saw him in love with life
even for the length of a song.
Late nights, music, and some star light.
tamia Feb 2017
here's to the glam rock messiah of outsiders and misfits,
the androgynous man of the stars with the music.

born in brixton,
he traveled the universe by spaceships and soundwaves
with wild hair and one eye dilated.
book-loving and queer,
in love with the thought of turning 50.
the world had never seen a man
living different lives at once,
but here the starman came reinventing himself:
ziggy stardust, thin white duke, aladdin sane, major tom—
all different selves tied together by his heart.

he lived his earthly mission, rightfully so
that even the gravity of the world could not keep him put.
so on and on he strummed his guitar and crawled on stage,
in spaceboots and dresses, in porcelain doll makeup,
reaching out to all the nobody and somebody people

but one day his cosmic vessel
was taken down by a secret sickness
and halted his mission here on earth,
and so the streets and little bars smelling of cigars
were flooded by the ones who mourned,
who looked up to the stars,
wondering where their starman went.
the world had never seen such an electric creature,
but here the star man came in music and dance,
saying it was alright to be weird—
to embrace strangeness
in a world where every earthling wanted to be the same.

and perhaps, he isn't really long gone:
his time here may have ended
but now he is out there, somewhere,
on some distant star,
watching over the Earth as he always has.
i miss you, david bowie.
Nico Reznick Jan 2017
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.

None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of ****** and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.

Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.

But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out
fine.
Joshua Dougan Dec 2016
The princess is dead, a tragic loss in mid air.
Our boy George has passed the torch along to his heir.
Major Tom blasted into space and ***** wonka was cast in haste.
But now we are drawn to the stage so sincere.
raingirlpoet Dec 2016
i didn't mourn your death
i didn't cry, didn't scream
didn't **** the world or any god for taking you away

and then i remember
english class, we all had to memorize Atticus's speech
you know, the one in the courtroom where he defended Tom Robinson

and then i remember
that you sang about leaving us before any of us knew you were gone
ziggy stardust, i miss you

and then i remember
i'm 7, maybe 8 years old
you taught me what imagination meant, what i could do, what alternate universes i could create

and then i remember
you loved so much you died with a secret
as i grew, i learned how to understand you

and then i remember
the day purple rain meant a nation mourning in unity

and then i remember
your song was in shrek and i'm sorry but that association from my childhood never left me

and then i remember
the amount of pain you endured

and then i remember
i was 11, my brother was singing along to hotel california, introduced me to your band and pointed you out to me
"that's glenn frey he's the guitarist"

and then i remember
why this year has been such a dark one
so much of the light has vanished with you

and then i remember

i never gave myself a chance to mourn your death

-z.z
'Adolf ****** was one of the first rock stars.'  David Bowie, 1975.

Oh
Oooh jah-
vowl!
Sieggy  did propaganda, ranting hard with Ernst and Herman
and bloodspidery swastikas, he plied hate rightwing
but made it too far
right, became the Fuehrer, then we waged total war.

Sieggy really seethed , Chaplin tash and Axis pact
with Italy and Japan.  He could whip’ em  by heiling,
he could lead them to hang
in the name of lebensraum. Weltanschauung? ‘No ****’ plan .

O where were the Tigers
while the Allies carpetbombed our walls?
Of the beerhall putsch
he’d remind us, whilst he ******* about his generals, panzers ephemeral.

Sieggy played for  time, jiving us that we were herrenvolk
- the Jews were just gassed. He was the Naz-
i who made God’s People his patsies.
He took it all too far but,  bosh, could he do propaganda!  

Making love with Germania, Sieggy ****** up into his bunker.
Like a lethal messiah,
when the Reds had reached Berlin he blew his brains in.
Oh jah-
vowl,
Sieggy did propagandaaaa-ah!
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