One more, and this is a bit unusual. But the Bowie song title I chose is "Eight Line Poem", so, welll...
Angel POV. Yeah, I'm a schmoophead.
Eight Line Poem
I have sweated out these days while I have wept throughout these nights
Barred from the sun's healing rays and kept from normal man's delights
I will lay here in this bed, so empty of the warmth I crave
One sweet girl, her golden skin in dreams tempts me to misbehave
To the north she works her will, to keep safe her hallowed ground
Golden girl child, chosen one, unworthy her name to sound
Slayer priestess born to slay all things that do the soul affright
I must wait my time alone here 'til her days shall match my night.
That was very nice.
In fact the Bowie fic you're doing tonight is all very tasty.
Interesting, working to a rhythm. I tend to associate rhythms with music more than speech, but the title was there.
Angel moves me to rhyme, or something.
Hee! Thankee, Madam Wife.
Any time.(Mutual appreciation being the key to any successful internet plural marriage.)
Thank you, world's bestest mama-in-law.
Your son, BTW, came and stared uncomprehendingly at it over my shoulder, while apologising for not having the "poetry gene". I patted him on the shoulder consolingly, and told him it was OK.
And one more Bowie drabble.
Young Americans
She picked him up just after sunset, near the backstage door of Madison Square Garden.
He was a fox, in a heroin-chic, underfed way; skinny, muscled, all black leather and bleached hair. His name, he said, was Spike; he was on the guest list. Did she want to hang out backstage, and watch Ziggy Stardust? Oh hell yes, she did. She took his arm, oddly cold, and went inside.
The Spiders from Mars burned, and nearly everyone staggered out into the chilly Manhattan dawn. They found her under the stage the next morning, but by then, everyone had moved on.
