He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.
And another on the trigger of a shotgun.
Depending on who you believe,
a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.
A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.
It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.
Through sentiment.
Remembrance.
And praise.
Shedding it’s form.
It becomes an idol.
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.
And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
A sly dog, indeed.