For him a nanosecond, scarce a slice of time,
washed over by other faces, other hands.
For me an encounter with a god,
if gods are merely mortals
overdetermined by our fantasies of swagger.
The very name Jagger
a Dickensian dagger.
Michael Philip takes the mick
with swollen lips and swollen prick
and Warhol’s great tumescent tongue.
Negrophile impostor, transexual manqué,
prancing Priapus or narcissistic ape:
Did you ever doubt yourself?
I met your dark henchman, shadow accomplice,
but you were the starfucked star
who awed me from a tender age:
Teacher’s son turned evil cupidon,
Loog’s insolent droog, flashy Jack jumping
with hand on spangled hip,
labial obscenity at the mic
brushing Keef’s green teeth.
Hyde Park, Altamont, Villefranche-sur-Mer:
Bianca your vanity-mirrored twin,
Nicaraguan panther scorned by Pallenberg.
Then my first Stones shows,
twice at Earl’s Court, one broken into.
Hyperbolic decadence on punk’s cusp,
your pale torso rising from the centripetal stage,
honky-tonk androgyne in heat.
When did the parties overtake the songs,
or was it just hard
to get toothless Keef’s attention
as he sank with Spanish Tony?
Of course I longed to be you,
to strut my stuff in stadia
and bag the babes you’ve had.
But Keef was right:
you didn’t move me anymore.
Yet now you’re here
in this our space and moment,
greatest star of stage and runway,
gracious as a king in your blue suit,
your hand in mine,
eyes already scanning for the next idolator.