That is the shimmy golden shimmer when dancefloor spinning, eyes caught, lights and, your eternal light in a flash and we are here. This now. Always and
Over. It is all the people’s faces I have seen you in, angel, and when seen in me – that spark, that – well, what is it? Nothing? That make it, baby. That radiation. That your children in their rags of light. These golden years.
And how spun over me, a child at the dinner table hearing train vibration reflections from the past and future. African Night Flight. A shudder brain flutter – what is this witchcraft? A fear, foreboding, desire. Difference. Destiny? Inevitability so ons.
And happy young queer dudes. A flickspin to each other all glammer for “WHAM BAM THANK YOU MAM!” Rebel Rebels skipping down roads in hot rags, visualizing real life futures in front of televisions, being living joyful oddities, grinning and weeping at self and loves. These not even transgressions. These life sparks of play.
Always there love, like sun and locomotion, a holding hand and swinging feet. Spark up in moments of illumination, oh Dave, right you are. Here we go. Hunky Dory. Well, so, making. Pop music’s mages. Weeping at big screens. Howling moons, so serious. Not so. We all make our ways through mires. Swaying in early morning magic time space, keening Quicksand. Nothing to get to, travellers in empty space, whispering through the holes.