Performance

The turmoil inside,
Now nakedly displayed.
Through mechanical motion,
Raw emotion is flayed
With frantic hands;
His soul is laid
Bare,
There on the stage.

No flashing lights in the hall,
For fear he should fall
In a spasmodic heap.
How far would he leap
For his art?
But always something
Holds him apart.

Obeying dark demands
On body and soul,
How often he would
Lose control.

Look in his eyes,
See the desperation take hold.
His crystalline voice,
Shards of his soul.
He would cross the line
Between life and art,
But always something
Keeps him apart.

Though it shall wait,
Yet it shall come -
A blue Monday,
Late in May.

In memory of Ian Curtis, lead singer of seminal post-punk band, Joy Division. An epileptic and manic depressive, Curtis hanged himself on the eve of his band's first concert tour of the U.S. In my opinion, the dark and moody songs he wrote and performed with Joy Division rank up there with the best of late-20th century poetry. Today, the surviving members of Joy Division soldier on under the name of New Order.