David Bowie


The magpie stopped
to listen
plucked notes for every meal,
sounds it could regurgitate,
or maybe just,
to dream.

He watched it
from a window,
cupped by a suburban sky
a plot to bring some moonshine
sweep Brixton’s streets with glitter,
and do it all in style.

To live life shifting shape,
in darkness, like an eel,
conjuring kooks, and gods,
and men on Mars,
dreamers floating down
an endless stream.

The magpie had a rule,
to tilt, avoid an even keel,
and follow orders tapped out with
every heartbeat:
rebel, rebel.



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