Imagine Kurt Cobain at fifty.
Would he dye his hair?
look all funny and fake.
Or let it go.

Imagine his voice
all ragged and worn.
from all those extra years of screaming.
Or would he have mellowed?

Imagine him softer,
more forlorn and old.
The structure of his face,
faded by ages chipping.

Imagine a fellow
more at home.
At peace.
Happy with his lot.

Imagine a normal,
dull kind of fellow.
Imagine him breathing again.
No longer the lonesome buck.

Imagine Kurt Cobain at fifty.
The hair kept long –
like David Bowie
who wore his long in all his lives.

Imagine the merging of the two,
somewhere half along
a joint rendition
of The Man Who Sold The World.

Imagine them as immortals –
the music their hearts make,
carrying on forever,
entwined with a host of others.

Imagine a future civilization.
Where the old deities are gone,
and the new ones
are remembered in music, sound and vision.

Imagine ‘93
Imagine an ordinary house shrine.
Imagine the monks who tend its grounds.
Imagine the toll of the bell.

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