(AppreCJ8n, 0.49: Maytheeighteenth)
Jenesaisquois are for jenesaischoirs, should just let
Your lusciousnuzz shush me - can'tjustyet - coz ta capitaloff,
the capital chapter of Our expressive love woz twentyfour years
ta firstmidnight a cor-
rosively approachable hero - grim, aged mannish boy
not much more than a score, younger than i but now darkly avuncular
- travelled hempen caudle over th'insensating precipice.
But one sorely needed for notsosorely inneed
of all that time it takes ta know the score:
oldsoul king curtis, iron curtis, final curtis crooned caves of ice
like an austere jimmorrison.
Northsouled modulations, god he drones
foghornwhispers ofdrowning.
Intonations of his introspection a selfhelp
death, suicidal diary imposed like a swingingshadow over
tenebrous jangled shimmerofgoth
punksynthtronica, Manc eighties' artrock todesfuge.
Ian called time
on his own tragic-ecstatic bluff at life,
his severesthope severing hope,
for blackest rapture of blankeyed dance,
attic spazzout of his jagging jazzhands
could not exorcise the diseaseofdivines and the divine disease,
the grand mal blues and the love triangst.
o punk larkin, pathetic byron,
salford chatterton, whose ghost is the feast
in fragile menace of early neworder
- 'tis not evident the grass is any green whatsoever
south of the phlegethon.
Still lopped his self off this living plebathon,
lobbed himself inta abyss all the swinging shadows impose.
Once i woudn't have blamedhim.
See ,Cee, i'm genuinely choosy.
You live