We put our problems in a bottle, sank it and said a prayer.. then hammered down the throttle and threw our hands to the open air.. The evening sky especially beautiful - It's sun bursting through cloudy skies And still, it was barely suitable to reflect those bluest eyes.. Then we tore through sparkling water - Blonde curls dancin' in the summer wind Just a worn out dad and his daughter who might not come this way again.. But today the water welcomes us.. promising to drown our sorrow.. And perhaps, the Good Lord helpin' us, we'll do it all again tomorrow..
I'm getting goosebumps thinking about my coney Island baby, we're going to the boardwalk and listen to some Rock and Roll. If I'm blessed by the warped east coast gods, I'll run into Sweet Jane and score some ******, the click that makes this hell alright. with a dime bag, this madness becomes a perfect world. This should be quite the Walk on the Wild Side.
this is a poem for the Band Challenge of B.L.T. the band is the great late Lou Reed.
Bowie left town blasting off from a Lafayette rooftop his *** spewing a rainbow arc liberally sprinkling Gluten-free golden glitter onto chichi Houston Street bistros liberating a fawning glitterati eager to prance about a shanghaied High Line
for a NY second the best dressed homeless dude in NoHo spotted a Pale Duke apparition fluttering over a posse of faux figurine graffiti splashed across a Banksyless wall tagging the sunny side of the finest neighborhood car wash
a ghostly Lou Reed dressed to the nines in sleek Transformer drag watched chuckling, scratching his ***** humming the final bars of an Eno inspired Perfect Day, marking odds when a long overdue Iggy Pop will crash the Pearly Gate mosh pits
Ubering through the choppy seas of urban sludge, lightning bolts streak down the sullen faces of cash strapped honey dippin lust for life hipsters, luxuriating in a well nursed millennial angst stew
Fun City's frenzied bare footin Little Monster darlings imprisoned in soulless high-rises, still a quarter shy from annual bonus time, pace white stained minimalist spaces indulging notions driven by economic compulsion to dial up flush with cash fund managers to seek margin loans on their large positions in alpha rich distressed asset funds while their diamond collared Schnauzers wait outside the corner State News licking the oozing sores encrusting Lazarus's feet
Ziggy's lapping tongue marks time, waiting for the stretchy panted painted ladies scoring Iman's organic rouge at a corner bodega
listening to a sidewalk trash can yelp today's Daily News headline "Major Tom Myna Hero!" bekighting the next 15 minute legend a talking Myna bird named Major Tom
the vigilant Major alerted occupants of a Brooklyn townhouse of a furnace leaking carbon monoxide when he stopped talking and dropped dead
a veritable canary in a coal mine story
a special service marking Major Tom's supreme sacrifice is planned, in the spirit of neighborhood beatification the family implores those wishing to express condolences in lieu of flowers to please occupy Prospect Park to drive out the rapacious squeegee men and feed the hungry pigeons
Bowie's earthly star may have gone black but the ashes of his disembodied voice will forever mark the city like the ubiquitous gray splot ashes of pigeon guano
Give me a chance to prove to you Do anything that please you To make you smile wide and bright As if you were saying cheese I'm ready to do everything To reverse what I have done For I need that guy back Who used to laugh and had fun So please forgive Hon For you are my only sun