There was gliding downstairs and a gold silk skirt swirling
around my feet, blown up and wavering at my movements
and Bowie pounding his Jean Genie out from the walls filling
my skinny soul with the impossible fantastic dream of this me
barely eighteen, a queen in a bar, in charge of the smallest
lounge searching for a bottle of pink gin that didn't exist – all
I knew was the longing for glamour in a cheap skirt that held me
entranced, dancing with David in the world, letting go-go-go.