My brain hurt like a warehouse; it had no room to spare I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
FIVE YEARS, DAVID BOWIE.
Bowie. Thank God for Bowie, gone but not forgotten, living on in such fantastic songs. I will attempt to refrain from waxing lyrical about the master craftsman too much (especially as a much longer non-fiction piece that I am still working on deals specifically with his legacy and how his work has resonated throughout my own life) but man, he was good. Christ, I even dig Tin Machine (and if you disagree, I strongly suggest you check out BABY UNIVERSAL or YOU BELONG IN ROCK AND ROLL from the TIN MACHINE II album)
I have been revisiting his vast and varied back catalogue quite a lot over the past few weeks and I found myself appreciating what a gifted lyricist he was. I think his skills as a wordsmith may have been overshadowed slightly by his flamboyant theatrical stage personas and constant shifting of musical genres, but some of the lines he wrote simply amaze me. Take this for example:
Don't look At the carpet I drew something awful on it See
BREAKING GLASS, DAVID BOWIE
Such simple lines, but so evocative and deliciously sinister. Or how about this:
And it was cold, and it rained so I felt like an actor And I thought of Ma and I wanted to get back there
FIVE YEARS, DAVID BOWIE
Awesome. If you have some time on your hands (which quite a few of us have at the moment) you could do a lot worse than to dig out any of his records (and I mean any, even the less acclaimed albums) and give them a spin. This time pay a little more attention to the words, you’re in for a treat. Anyway, on to business. More nineteen-word stories.
DESERT ISLAND DISCOVERY.
His body, bloody, upon the beach. A tidal wave of terror; two survivors had washed up on the shore.
MUSE USED, US AMUSED, ME A MUSEUM.
He awoke to find that the stories had run dry. Said his goodbyes, took his pen, scrawled THE END.
Even the shopping list became a litany of lust. Betwixt the bread and milk, a request to lick her.
She hurt him; harsh words cutting deep. The pain grew, became all he knew, until the wound consumed everything.
IT IS A WISE FATHER THAT KNOWS HIS OWN CHILD.
I’ll tell you this son, people are just no good. Stick to your books; they’ll always look after you.
I believe that makes it nine more owed. The debt will be settled before the sixth of May. On the literature front, I have just finished Joe Hill’s short story collection FULL THROTTLE (outstanding work, highly recommended) and I have nothing but great things to say about Mark Z Danielewski’s ONLY REVOLUTIONS. Read ‘em!