Bowie Wall, Brixton London by James Cochran, aka Jimmy C (England) 2013
Now Bowie, ten, a Bromley lad,
just as was I, but up the street,
a crow’s fly mile at most I’d say.
My class desk in a row beside
his Burnt Ash School; like Brixton’s fires,
the riots of a bile unjust,
piles pillars, bricks from racist wiles.
Graffiti there, the poet’s tool,
and walls, illumined manuscripts
bloom words and storeys of new ways;
a due home for once aliens,
‘no dogs, blacks, Irish’ labels gone.
In inner city, outer strife
gives way to carnival of life.
They, Wolf Cubs, his gyrations thought
were from another planet moves;
from group to band, encore, again,
most missing, songs of early years;
would Bowie sheath or flick that knife,
in search from Iggy, Ziggy flame
with paranoia of his genes?
Space oddity, an odyssey,
to find his hunky dory name,
androgyny to mask within
his clouded eye from fist of friend.
Cracked actor, music of the spheres,
too many balls hang in the air,
sheer stardust coming in to land.