to follow faeries

within twilights when spirit matches jeans-
smoke-soaked, dark-blue and faded
in stylized distress at elevated price-
i cry to cobain and meet him midway,
asking the worse of bullet and fame,
ignoring fem-fates that laced the dice.

we know we overglance the obvious-
the yang knifing yin,
the one-petal’d lotus flower,
the cross with no nails, removed,
rusted, sanguin-stained
and worn as jewelry for the skin, the eyes
pierced and piercing the irony of band names
hopeless with hope, singing merits of rage,
knowing without speaking,
dying without dying within waiting
to make a name, to make lead gold…
to buy new jeans…
smoke out the spirit
captured in moist lucent moonlight,
eclipsing golden-glow singers of fortunes lost-
all exchanged for resplendent eidola-
so clean and godless and perfect,
never hazy, never smoky, so clear.

but kurt tells me faeries aren’t to own
and the perfect ones all fly back home.
(follow?)