Cobain

Love saved him many times
for the sake of a
loveless marriage,
each overdose seeking to fill a
Hole
six feet deep,
yet
Love brought him back
reluctantly
to the endless grind of
reused needles
and the rocking and rolling of
stomach pains,
Love saving him like the
heroin
of the life he was trying to
escape.
His spine could not bear the
Grungy crown of a generation,
nor the Stratocaster scoliosis
or the
Punk anger,
so he finally took himself
hostage
with a shotgun
and escaped Love’s
heart-shaped box
and fame
and himself
to the Nirvana of
a Hemingway cliche,
rehabilitated at last
in the Lotus bloom
of buckshot.

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