A dead man is singing and playing.
It happens all the time.
It has now for some years.
Since the phonograph.
Not long at all.
Used to be it never happened.
It’s kind of a new thing.
No wonder we fear zombies.
We have them here on record.
Have them on film.
They move, they sing, they never leave.
How are we supposed to miss them?
We want a proper moment with their absence.
Want to call this feeling grief.
Want to call it mourning.
If you’re dead you’re dead Jimi Hendrix.
Stay dead.
Stay a legend.
Don’t keep up the Zombie Franchise!
However much adored this is.
However much goddamn good this is.
However much good this does to hear it.
We would have gotten by without it.
We would have gotten over the loss at some point.
Don’t like loving it.
Loving it anyway.
It appears they aren’t gone.
Like they never left.
Hear them out there.
Like a train whistle off a ways.
Hear my train a comin’.
Hear my train go by.
A dead man playing real live blues.
I hear my angel fly.