To Ian Curtis

[heslopian]

The bleakness of your vision came through
like starlight on an empty suburb.
If music opens a channel to God
your message of despair, each note a screw
on a pharisees' thumb, but a gentle breeze
in my ears, would have made Him close His eyes.

I'd lay on my bed at night and play your albums;
it was like being alone in space.
You were just a punk with an attitude
but you spoke to me, and something in your songs
transcended nihilism, as though sadness
is its own reward, a dignity during chaos.