27

I fear not joining the 27s
There's this thing
about approaching the line
between a groupie
and a rock star.

I wish I was more
Of the tattered spirit
hanging on the tattered jeans
of Cobain,
eligible to join the 27 club.

If only I was wasted
on dope,
and rose high
on the thin white lines
running in the air.

If only I got low
on booze,
woke up every morning
to the sweet smell
of beer.

If only I got laid
more than I bargained for
and woke up every morning
to the breath of
new skin.

If only the spotlight
was so bright
that I'd be blinded
And the noise
of the crowds so shrill
I'd break.

If only I lived so fast
that I'd cover the ground
even before reaching
the finishing line.
If only there'd be so much
to live for
that I'd die grabbing it.

If only I'd be caught
napping on the border
If only I'd be caught
in the crossfire-
of darkness and light.

Then I'd be a Morisson
Or a Hendrix or a Joplin.
For
real rockers don't die early
They only cross the line.