For Layne, Ode to 1996
A/N: This is obviously for one of my heroes, Layne Staley. I know, what a lousy throwback to the grunge era but there is otherwise no way to express honest lament other than anything that comes in prose. This should be enough.
Why the anonymity after the fame?
The dark frames rest on a face too far gone. Way behind, the road sinks further, stretching out of bounds where few men mark their territory. Dim lights, streaks of pink, and pale gold are the only ones that stand out in monochrome but for the moving ghostly whiffs from the weapons of gradual suicide. Two long legs wrapped in denim bend in unseen pain. Up above, unable to conceal their sharpness, his shoulders stick out like dying thorns. Lower still, his chest barely rises and falls. The cloth that hides it thickens, it seems, as it pursues its attempt to fill a basin where the heart used to be. The heart still beats, but faintly and desperately, somewhere behind reduced bones. It will hold out for another few years and then shut down.
In the meantime, he steps up the dais for the first time after his much wrung hibernation. A fragile body trembles, then a curse. Fuck, he grunts like the old days. Drum roll, guitar strums, whistles and shrieks, amidst all this his voice escalates, its quality unsmeared by a thousand abuses. Another one, distinct and subtle, holds itself aloft in a while and lends the music its duality and harmony, for which it will ever be known. He dishes out what could be his last ounce of strength. It comes out in power. Nobody expects it, but it kills it nonetheless. Six years back, at his reported best, he wouldn’t have sounded any better. Nothing’s changed, it has to be believed. The rope remains, re-tightened, leading to salvation. In their minds, reality gives birth to a legend. The screams heighten as the rope tightens.
Hues of blue shiver along with his throat. Humming, he starts to haunt a million souls. It lingers, sustained, as if to live forever. The words slither in a last slow dance and nobody realizes it. They run deeper than bleeding fatal cuts, that being all that is felt. He sits on the tip of a great tradition. Fresh from the warmth of ashes, he will be delivered back to the cradle. Nobody pays attention. He finally screeches to a halt, once and for all.
What we saw lay far from glory. A glaring story of destruction in the making, you ask, how could we ever fail to see? To ironically die alone amidst the claims of love and worship, to be remembered with much remorse, made a relic of, revered, imitated to much lesser degrees, what could be worse? To die of poison.
The cross you had to bear, I could’ve borne it all the way. What had really never been compassion, I now understand as I watch its transformation, turns to love. The object lies dead ahead, long decayed. The asphalt leads to many places, but never quite to you. Admired, after all these years, for purposes unknown, misunderstood, I long to know what else there is to see.
Why the anonymity after the fame?
The dark frames rest on a face too far gone. Way behind, the road sinks further, stretching out of bounds where few men mark their territory. Dim lights, streaks of pink, and pale gold are the only ones that stand out in monochrome but for the moving ghostly whiffs from the weapons of gradual suicide. Two long legs wrapped in denim bend in unseen pain. Up above, unable to conceal their sharpness, his shoulders stick out like dying thorns. Lower still, his chest barely rises and falls. The cloth that hides it thickens, it seems, as it pursues its attempt to fill a basin where the heart used to be. The heart still beats, but faintly and desperately, somewhere behind reduced bones. It will hold out for another few years and then shut down.
In the meantime, he steps up the dais for the first time after his much wrung hibernation. A fragile body trembles, then a curse. Fuck, he grunts like the old days. Drum roll, guitar strums, whistles and shrieks, amidst all this his voice escalates, its quality unsmeared by a thousand abuses. Another one, distinct and subtle, holds itself aloft in a while and lends the music its duality and harmony, for which it will ever be known. He dishes out what could be his last ounce of strength. It comes out in power. Nobody expects it, but it kills it nonetheless. Six years back, at his reported best, he wouldn’t have sounded any better. Nothing’s changed, it has to be believed. The rope remains, re-tightened, leading to salvation. In their minds, reality gives birth to a legend. The screams heighten as the rope tightens.
Hues of blue shiver along with his throat. Humming, he starts to haunt a million souls. It lingers, sustained, as if to live forever. The words slither in a last slow dance and nobody realizes it. They run deeper than bleeding fatal cuts, that being all that is felt. He sits on the tip of a great tradition. Fresh from the warmth of ashes, he will be delivered back to the cradle. Nobody pays attention. He finally screeches to a halt, once and for all.
What we saw lay far from glory. A glaring story of destruction in the making, you ask, how could we ever fail to see? To ironically die alone amidst the claims of love and worship, to be remembered with much remorse, made a relic of, revered, imitated to much lesser degrees, what could be worse? To die of poison.
The cross you had to bear, I could’ve borne it all the way. What had really never been compassion, I now understand as I watch its transformation, turns to love. The object lies dead ahead, long decayed. The asphalt leads to many places, but never quite to you. Admired, after all these years, for purposes unknown, misunderstood, I long to know what else there is to see.
posted by Ria D. at
10:28 AM
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