The eternal rebel kid in your living room
is the same as the one in the photo
and the same as you remember,
An archetype
who held all you put in it,
into the pout,
the wind-brushed hair,
the vampire pallor
-- there was a time
a look was
deeper than philosophy
and just as empty,
When the world had
stopped us dead
in our tracks
And all we could
muster was
this reaction
Part-Prince, part-martyr,
all-pirate,
Like the only heroism
left was to die
in an original way,
and be mourned
by the doomed.
The same extremity that
drove them to that
Now drives us to envy
of them,
How the silver plum
hasn't yet
crushed their crown
and the mouths to feed
aren't yet
talking back,
Their poses of ancient gallantry
grow into stone
As our jealousy
slowly turns
to scorn
In helpless
waiting.