Flame-haired Firebird
The starman touched me in the night.
He'd stepped down from Mars
with his spiders to tell me
travel light.
We exchanged gifts.
His was a moon stone
shining with the secrets of stardust,
to carry in the pocket of my cloak.
Let's dance, he leaned in
as he took my hand.
I'd been dancing for six hours,
my limbs were scattered.
I've danced my whole life,
there rolls my head,
I was born dancing.
We danced as crowds
began to circle us.
I could see the envy in their eyes.
I remembered all the dances
from my sweet bird of youth.
That record breaking tap dance
in a pink lycra catsuit,
freezing between takes
in an Eastney wind
on a hard marine parade ground.
A bowler-hatted Sally Bowles,
fifteen in fishnets and a bow tie,
casting out in the shadows of
Portchester Community Centre,
to net Mein Herr and a reprisal
on a Soho bentwood chair,
fifteen years in the future.
There was no shame
in that or on the Wednesday night
dancefloor at the Zap.
Club Shame poppers passed out
to blast our brains and relax
the muscle of sweating men
rubbing against each other
to a bump and grind beat.
This was the legendary dance
of pride and resistance.
In fields we wove snakes in the air,
sound systems piled high,
a makeshift stage for the DJ
fashioned from plastic beer crates.
When the generator packed up
a cry rose from the dark grass,
followed by a universal roar
as the beat cranked back into action.
The firebird burst upon us
and we'd smile, wild-eyed
in her golden light, raving..
Another light, holy neon,
would flicker over wet Soho streets
above Madame JoJo's
and our dressing rooms.
Girls, Girls, Girls...
and two guys.
Lost girls in those Christian eyes
singing to save our souls
on a Saturday night
whilst we painted our glitter lids
and plumped our ruby lips,
undressing as we dressed
for the bum line finale.
Two shows a night,
six nights a week
in four inch heels,
with stamina, pluck,
and wide-eyed determination.
Several blocks from Walkers Court
stood a red replacement telephone
kiosk filled with lipstick kisses.
I knew that street well,
from rolling joints
to teenage perfection
in Pompey squats,
before going out dancing.
Ziggy danced us back
to where he had landed
in his jumpsuit and flame red hair.
I am your firebird and we have five years.
Old Soho is long dead, so let's dance
from its ashes as Lady Stardust
sings songs from my pocket
of darkness and a bold disgrace.
I am your blue bird dancer;
we have five years.