Fan Mail to Ian

Dear Ian,
I felt obliged to write
after I spent a fortnight listening to you sing,
and viewing photos of your vacant eyes,
and awkward dancing limbs.
I wish to account contemplative moments with your music in a dim light.
But I fear there is a different scene I wish to reprise:

Answer me Ian, if you please.
Did you watch The Idiot turn,
Or did the sounds of Iggy Pop fade along with your sights?
Were your limbs moving with tense, tragic determination,
or swaying with fingers twitching in an uncontrollable shock?
What were the tides of your mind,
as you decided for eternity, and carried through that night?
Morrison and Dean?
A thought for Deborah?
A lamentation for yourself?
Perchance a collage of sound that kept on “calling you”?

Forgive me, Ian,
I feel at fault with this contemplation.
But written accounts continue to guide me to this destination,
that transform a grieving man to an enigmatic legend.
Alas, at this location I find you, a young man and the means to his end.
For underneath the glossy photographs of myth and legacy,
Did your end actually symbolise a tear-jerking crescendo of a human tragedy?

By JPV