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.