For George Michael Poem by Lamont Palmer

Blonde and
high alto
reverberations,
it was a throat
made of a special soul,
the edge
of serenity,
at one
with the
dance,
from a
living motion.
We learned of a pop sound,
but not pop,
not fully
the trivial
in the
exagerated gyrations;
(nearly cockney) .

Supple and
young, thoughts
never died; the
turntable, so much a
mechanical Adam
of funky
auras, beat in the
blood, the sole
place for it, and
excitement never
dwelled outside
of closeness.
Something touched
not just us
but the bottom
of seas
between
cultural kisses,
and Americans
kissing
British invasions.