Performer Extraordinaire Poem by Mark Heathcote

Ian Kevin Curtis was a singer, songwriter and musician,
Who had a dark baritone voice and a dancing style his own?
A well-read boy said to be an intelligent child, displaying
A flair for poetry. Not with anger but with energy and mood.
He spearheaded the band. Joy Division, to the forefront
Of the post-punk movement. A strong-willed individual
With a keen interest in fashion. Curtis worked on his songs
In what his wife, Deborah, called his 'song-writing room.'
Curtis was diagnosed with epilepsy, described as severe,
He would take anticonvulsants to bring seizures under control.
The effect was limited, leading to disruptive mood swings,
That even prevented him from holding his baby daughter.
He wrote words that would be lived in his song lyrics
But love, love will tear us apart again
Love, love will tear us apart again

Then love, love will tear us apart again
Love, love will tear us apart again

With forthrightness, Curtis was an unabashed genius
Curtis was a performer extraordinaire
A genie in a bottle that could not be controlled
Breaking the bonds and chains of social convention,
Social norms, the norms of slaving away every day,
With no voice and no spirit or feeling, feeling, feeling
With nothing to hide or pretend.
He was amongst the living and not the dead unfeeling.
Sing song lyrics that had angst and meaning
For a new poverty-struck tribe.
It haunts, haunts - haunts us even today in our silence.

They walked in line, they walked in line,
They walked in line, they walked in line
And now it's us walking around in zombie costumes
To melancholic tunes chosen specially to fit us today,
Singing like yellow canaries without a soul, caged.
Chained little birds that have never truly flown,
You exist on the Best terms you can without grief,
You exist desperately trying not to commit
A public disorder, a crime by mistake
Apart from the crime of being born.

The crime of searching for another neutral look
That ultimately shouts, screams and says leave me alone.
I do not have a country, or a family, or even an identity
And much less a home.
That is why I am losing control, angst with rage.
Clinging to a contract iPhone. That is why I am still here,
Pseudonym unknown. On the brink of tears,
Having tears, tears in my eyes, for all those forgotten years praying for a New Order.