A sonnet for David Bowie
by Sherry Barker Abaldo
Like Tennyson losing Byron we run
to our stone screens to cry Bowie is dead!
Spellcaster, chameleon, untamed one
rocking the world to oceans in his head.
We are so different now – all dark stars
in our own movies peddling street art.
We are all shamans, all dancers from Mars,
all babes, all dying, all female, all smart.
Draped in dildoes and lace and tuxedoes
shining like chandeliers we march onwards
in what’s more like a shimmy, pink shadows
a choir behind us, camp knives our bright swords.
When we think how could there be anymore
we put on our helmets, find a new door.