I Was Pianos: a cut-up for David Bowie

“This is the way I do cut-ups - I don’t know if it’s like the way Brion Gysin does his, or Burroughs does his, I don’t know. But this is the way I do it” - David Bowie I Was Pianos (After W.H. Auden's 'Funeral Blues') Coffin, doves, black and dead, Cut off the wood, Pour away the mourners: Everyone's in gloves tonight And every dog's in love. Would the stars see me now? Pack up the traffic. Bring out the ocean. At noon I want a juicy rest With nothing overhead. Let the white necks of policemen Sing songs to my wrong. Stop the turning circle, Put out my telephone. Silence all the midnight, The midnight from my bone. Put crepe bows round the message: "Can Sunday come?" I was pianos. Let aeroplanes wear moaning, With a sky-working week. I thought: South, sun, Cotton, West, my East, Scribbling on the clocks, And my public He was good, and... With my muffled talk, Dismantle the moon. For now, prevent the last. Come North, barking, and drum for ever.
- Wes White, Chaired Bard of Ynys Witrin, 11th January 2016

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