Flat White.
The light shines on Electric Avenue while
Bowie's ghost sound-checks the wind -
hand on hip,
fire in the eyes,
mischief on the lip,
mind made out of universes. Sometimes it's like he never left Brixton and
never got famous and
only owned these streets and
was King of what could have been.
You wonder, did he feel lost on these streets? Right here?
Right where you are, where
you ache right now?
Strangers pass you by,
their steps a part of a melody
you never quite got the lyrics to.
Sipping coffee, far away from this table,
from this island, you
just press pause on this.
Then, for good measure,
press save.
There's no ship to bring you
closer to your shores,
There's no absolute beginners
that Bowie sang about.
There's, for sure, an absolute sense of an break,
a crack -
but one that lets light out
and yells: "...And stay out!"
Where are all our heroes now?
Did they also stop for coffee?
