Ian, look
no one ever loved you until you were dead
for a reason
I'm not listening to you
but I still can't escape
your sad rhythm
kinetic transposition
these are vibrations, after all
reverberations
they cannot reach us directly
they must come to us
through distance
but how drastically
must we have changed
to have immortalized
someone like you, Ian
sad acne
with a world of attention and
fucking alone anyway
carried
through your internal extremes
with a persona to suggest
the opposite
do you think
that if I could have been
your turning hands
the manic
roil chamber of
heart,
uncertain
voice,
disturbed
the septic
loop
of inner
hate
inner
madness
that I might be so loved
for achieving such mastery
over such a dour recipe
a stew of pain
the afteryears
marked,
years won over
your self-failure
by way of your legacy
from your own quiet
bedrooms
to hearts and headphones
of countless other beds
the inheritants
of your housefire
a young family
of millions
years won over
your surrender
the ice rush
shock to the head
falsifying equilibrium
begging
the knife
the pill the touch the change
when your only good
decision
was to not allow
shame
to get the better
of expression
to turn disease
against disease
to foster the plague
synthesize the virus
the parasite of pattern
rooting and sucking
down into sadness,
reputation
the slow immortality
that gives us nothing but
the still
toxic waters
in the wake
of our new world
of your death
you son of a bitch, you deserve to be remembered
August, 2014