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Bowetry
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I Will Love Aladdin Sane
Aladdin Sane 1973

Cara Losier Chanoine

He looked a lot like Che Guevara,
but strung out on lasers
and slash-back blazers.
He could eat you with a fork and spoon
and his script is you and me, boy.

He said a Benny Goodman fan
painted holes in his hands
and strolled, like a Chicago moll,
past the silent cars that slept at traffic lights,
past a trickle of strangers
left with their own clutches of sad remains.

He ate all your razors,
but he’s only taking care of the room,
because you need some guiding,
because how you move is all it takes
for the accidental sirens
to strike their sad, glissando strings.

He kept his gun in quiet seclusion,
said a prayer
that neither hands nor limbs would burst,
said, Goddamn, you’re looking old,
while cracking all the mirrors in shame.
He stands in steel by his cabinet,
preaching battle cries and champagne.

His trick is you and me, boy.
I said Baby, you’re a porcupine.
He told me, I’m stiff on my own legend,
but you will be my rest and peace.

He clutches his sad remains
and keeps all your dead hair.

There’s a sniper in his brain,
regurgitating a trickle of strangers.
Time—he flexes like a whore,
and it’s a trick to make you see wide.
He stands in quiet seclusion
while I run to smash
my favorite slot machine,
but he’d left me an autograph
on all the cracking mirrors.
It said,
I’m sorry I ate your razors.
My rest and peace
is played on a sad, glissando string
and neither hands nor limbs
can clutch the sad remains.
Let me collect dust.



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