James Dean and The Little B*****dA Poem by Relic![]() The Little B*****d ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I wish I'd seen him in Fairmount with a Stetson hat, blue jeans, and boots; or with his collar turned up on a drizzly day, before his fast life crashed through the intersection of folklore and fame. . Before his sleek silver Spyder gripped him to death in its web, and a thousand pounds of metal disfigured his boyish smile. . I'll bet those white lines on the road resembled the seconds counting down: until the ferocious thunderclap of eternity. . He roared through life faster than a silver Triumph motorcycle through the streets of Indiana. . The Spyder is gone, his high school is gone, he's gone. . Death replaced his lines, and that wasn't part of the script.
© 2025 RelicAuthor's Note
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Added on March 26, 2022Last Updated on March 30, 2025 |


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