Watching this leather rock God sweat his ballad beer-battered rain water baptism religion on us.
The guitar solos anoint him, sound wave wingspan or oil angel.
I want to light a fire under him, mutter his one hit wondrous words as chanted prayer and ascend him to true perfect fame.
The song will haunt the radio, him weighted down heavy metal, I want to lighten his load to ashes, rise him up, ghost him to new heights.
His name is tattooed across my body, scrawled across the paint-scrape walls of my apartment, forever burning ecstasy holes in my tongue.
If his blood kisses my face in the gun blast.
I will wash myself forever, call it baptism.
I will keep him broken, exalted smashed "Who" guitar unplayable,
keep him mine forever.
The pistol promises him stardom, I pull my trigger and it kills the man,
stops the music.
But saves the God in him, makes him front-page deity,
keeps his song rolling forever in my head, on the minds of those destined to call him gone before his time, I will not let him fizzle like some rockabilly Graceland mortal.
I will Kobain him to the pantheon of those gone too early, candles blown out by fate,
by accident, by a crazed fan with the means to keep him perfect.
The gun smoke is his incense, modern crucifixion before a crowd of thousands,
I will Pharisee him into Scripture star.
His religion will live on, his ritual stands as instruction.
I will make a God of him,
a Wicker Man effigy to bring rain to the blood thirsty tabloid congregation,
True Gods are only worth the worship,
when you burn down their temple.
My torch burns bright enough,
for this star.