The Day Bowie Died, by Kevin Higgins

  

After Frank O Hara

 

Somewhere else,

 

Lulu is blowing morning kisses

to the mirror, looking forward to another day

of making increasingly thin hay

out of having once been married to a Bee Gee.

 

Gary Barlow is furiously trying to get through

to his accountant.

 

Mick Hucknall is rediscovering

Buddhism, and watching a fox

be torn to small morsels by hounds.

 

Cliff Richard is madly practising

his dance moves, and thinking about maybe

later playing some tennis.

 

Kanye West is not being disposed of

in a septic tank in one of the less

salubrious parts of Roscommon.

 

Noel Gallagher is tragically

waking up alive, and babbling

about how Jeremy Corbyn is a

communist, fascist, Cistercian,

or some other word he recently learned

to (sort of) pronounce.

 

This day that began with the red

head of our cat Ziggy

announcing itself against

the bedroom door.

 

KEVIN HIGGINS is the Bogmans Cannon satirist-in-resident.

 

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