A Skin Too Few

A pretty interesting idea from a poet named Nick Drake.

Live Air by Nick Drake

The deserted second hand record exchange;
Just a bald guy and his ponytail
Guarding the memory palace of dead vinyl;
Multiple copies of Rumours and Blue
And the Carpenters' Greatest Hits in brown and gold;
Pink Moon's playing on the sound system,
Nick Drake's last LP; soon he would die
On the night Lord Lucan disappeared, Miss World
Lost her crown as an unmarried mother,
And the sun's November mercury slipped
Off the indigo horizon at 4.04 pm...
I browse the bins, and luckily I find
Fruit Tree, the deleted posthumous box set -
Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter, Pink Moon;
Three big black discs, acetate ammonites
Coded for ancient technology.
I offer Bela Lugosi my credit card;
He stares at the name, my face, then up
To the shivering strip light and the obscure ceiling
Where sound waves collide with dust to conjure
Nick's sad ghost in the live air, whispering:
Know that I love you, know that I care,
Know that I see you, know I'm not there
Then the song fades to recorded silence -
The hushed acoustic of his after-life -
Before the static, the perpetual heart-beat trip
Round the record's inevitable zero...
Lugosi looks from the dark vacancy,
The tangled wires, the drifting motes
In the creaky auditorium of dust
Where the ghost had sung and disappeared; he grins;
"Oh man, oh man, I thought you were dead..."

Right on.