Originally published as a sobituary (sexy obiturary) in volume two of Susan Hamilton’s Technology Concern.

Since Bowie died you can’t touch yourself without thinking of them. When you cum they’re there. Coiffed hair, dilated pupil, high cheekbones written out in the your sticky inky love. You try touching yourself with all the lights off only to find your cum glittery, starlit. There Cum Bowie is, cigarette loosely hanging in their lips. Cum Bowie twinkles mischievously. You strike at the cum with napkins, but it reforms into the shape of a red Hagström Kent 12-String acoustic guitar, which refuses to stop playing a resonant Gm chord. This summons the tetchy elderly couple upstairs to your door. To whom you explain the situation and at the mention of David Bowie’s name they put a finger on your lips and tell you they 100% no-questions-asked completely understand. When they die, you cum out each of their two faces once and from then on out you splooge just like everybody else. █