Bowie Mural, Brixton 2016

I’ve seen the graffiti of gratitude
scrawled on a wall by a multitude
of mourners who didn’t know what to do
to mark the momentous occasion –
just needed to leave some personal statement,
messages, notes saying “You were great, man”
and votive offerings for a vanished star:
there’s a cheap red wig, a broken guitar
and scented candles, guttering in jam jars.
Fans leave more flowers, leave in a hurry
as the beggars assemble, scenting money.
Kids point to the mural “Who’s that, mummy?” –
their mummy begins to weep. The facade slips,
and suddenly that British upper lip
trembles, can’t bring itself to be quite so stiff.
A nation’s reputation in danger
today, as strangers comfort sobbing strangers –
somewhere, the Starman smiles, sings “Ch-ch-changes…”

The Fan Who Fell To Earth

(to the tune of The Man Who Sold The World)

A solitary star
up in the sky turns black
and something special’s gone
that never can come back.
A constant is no more.
Hearts sink that used to soar
and sadly it’s a fact –
not braced for the impact…

Crawl from the crash
with wounded wings unfurled,
take shaking steps
in a strange post-Bowie world.

Wake to a world that’s wrong,
and mourn for mismatched eyes,
brain full of fractured song,
soul screaming to the skies –
a scream of disbelief,
a desert born of grief,
and, choking on the dust,
drink tears, because you must…

Like it or not
somehow the time drags on
and so begins
post-Bowie world, day one.

BC, AD
are meaningless to me.
The years to come
will be dated post-Bowie.