Monday, January 11, 2016

Obituário: David Bowie

My Death
David Bowie
My death waits like
an old roué:
So confident,
I'll go his way.
Whistle to him
and the passing time.

My death waits like
a Bible truth
at the funeral
of my youth.
Are we proud for that
and the passing time?
My death waits like
a witch at night
as surely
as our love is right.
Let's not think about
the passing time.
But whatever lies
behind the door,
there is nothing much to do.
 Angel or devil,
I don't care
for in front of that door
there is you.

My death waits like
a beggar blind
who sees the world
through an unlit mind.
Throw him a dime
for the passing time.
My death waits there
between your thighs.
Your cool fingers
will close my eyes.
Let's think of that
and the passing time.

My death waits
to allow my friends
a few good times
before it ends.
So let's think of that
and the passing time.
For whatever lies
behind the door,
there is nothing much to do.
Angel or devil,
I don't care
for in front of that door
there is you.
My death waits there
among the leaves
in magician's
mysterious sleeves,
rabbits and dogs
and the passing time.
My death waits there
among the flowers
where the blackest shadows,
blackest shadows cowers.
Let's pick lilacs
for the passing time.
My death waits there
in a double bed,
sails of oblivion
and my head.
So pull up your sheets against
the passing time.
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil, I don't care
for in front of that door there is,
Thank You.

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