Ste(e/a)l - Snow on Bowie's Birthday

There isn't warmth here, not like there used to.
Last night, they came and spray-painted the windows.
Now you look like something that's different.
When I was little, I tied balloons out on the lampposts.
But the cops came and pinprick-bulleted them away.
They said, whatever you do, don't look out.
There's nothing left for you in the outs,
Which means you dig out your pocket knife and dig in.
The bulletin board said there's nothing to tell you.
So I scrunch up my jaw, and keep my mouth shut.
Rainbow's edge, devil never tell you how to get back.
Blinded by greed, you signed up another ten year,
Missed your anniversary, missed out your life.
Behind the house, there's a treasure-streak field,
'Cept my teeth got ruined Halloween last, and all you get,
When you eyeball me in the center, is a scaredy stay-at-home mouse.
Why a mouse? 'Cause it likes to heal.
A man named Andy Wood was born today. Last century. Last year.
Man called Bowie. Man-called-snow. The outside's caked in snow.
And does it make me subtly less a person, if I forget to say hello someday?
I don't really think you should gig when your frontman dies.
But that don't mean you should die, either.
When one front of you dies, do you just pack up, and move shop?
Pull my knees to my chest as though my thighs don't object.
Scramble to plaster the comedown walls. Straggle to stay same.
Gut Scraggly and Dr. Punch. On command, at command.
Trying to build up a face to say hello backed on who I was last year.
I'm sorry I changed. I'm sorry it snowed.
I'm sorry I wanted to fall on my head.
The past absence of choice doesn't mean the choice stays easy, always.
And I'm learning, but like a 15-year-old drop-out.
Had I stayed on another year, would they have taught me structure?
Or, at least, how not to suffer too much in its scrawny absence?
I was busy Diamond Dogging in my room after lights out.
Now my clock says begin again, wear my mismatch pupils on the inside.
I'm looking at AI Mr. Men gabbing, and trying to decide how I'm yet a person.
Picasso might not have been an asshole, but I sure know I could be.
Heores blinking in faded taillights. Straddling one day between life and death.
One day's all it takes to become something. Take stock. Reinvent.
It could be later in your day, but isn't. Ain't earlier, either.
Just stuck on this murky, in-between day.

Do you know how to begin to mend when things stop working? Me neither. It's a David Bowie few days, isn't it?