Rubáiyát of James Dean

Try not to think in questions
The nightingale cries to the rose
There are no answers in the advance
Of the tide that follows where the motorcycle martyr goes

The con man's textbook lays open
On the garage floor in the fires of spring
The words that are spoken are already broken
For they are not formed as they ring

And David's lips are locked in place
For the sitter in eternal occupation
For the taste of one sweet, or something run bitter
The thirst of the lost, the sorrows of the station

But as soon as he is free, he speaks
Fuck me you've got a lot to say
But time upon the wing is made of nothing
So pick the perfect or go away

We sit on the beach, watch the ivy and gold
Drenched in the Neptune night
The tide that takes the moment, the burning monument
To a soul occupying a memory that's already old

There's an automobile on the banks of the Wolf river
I wonder if he's still stuck in there
The wheels spit up sand into the out reaching hand
For bloodied David suspended in his own glare

And there, little James Dean in his leather jacket dream
With my character actor composure and lawless crime
And your spyglass eyes gaze upon our mutual lies
We get ahead of ourselves, but behind on time

And these heroes, I only just learnt
They did not die by the flame
But I've seen how you treat those who stood where I now stand
I ask not to be judged by the weight of another's name

And the nightingale and the rose, the suspended
I ask if those who came before are now free
And as the rose dies, the nightingale cries
All souls are equal in discarded memory