we can’t even get michael jackson back
strange that such a bleak landscape, billie jean and not my son,
seem so innocent now,
after the near-fall.
the rakish lift of one sleeve – what did it mean?
a time when style was everything
and a homeless man required only the celebrity touch
to change rags for a white tuxedo
gold teeth for a golden watch
and we all knew - you wanted to move like him too
today we lust for apocalypse
no use pretending
dance towards it, in control, with moves.
one day, if the end does not near,
hearts will explode all over the same bleak backdrop
and we all thought he was the one
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