an infidel runs out to the street
to gaze at the five planets which aren’t there,
the whore ties her hair in a bun
to sing to the moon draped behind the clouds,
and the starving mutt barks
creating a collapsing sense of reality,
where sound & vision are marred by
the man who sold the world,
the goblin king wreathing gold coins
enumerating the faces in pain, and
the pain in faces.
how odd is that space of un-belonging,
how dust from stars fall into my eyes
to let me see and let me think, and burn
from ashes to ashes, from skin to skin,
I did relinquish the desire of faith and fate,
I stole the diamonds from his eyes
but they were just buttons with no life,
so in the end, there are only dreams
and that tiny whimsy bit of hope
that has to be quashed, in order
the whore’s song has died.
the infidel castrated,
the starving has starved,
I, done with the world.
A Farewell to David Bowie. Linking it up with With Real Toads.