Nevermore, Dude: The Raven Reimagined for the Gen-X Soul

Halloween is creeping up again, which means it is time for dark corners, questionable costumes, and poetic misery. Edgar Allan Poe was basically the first emo before eyeliner was a personality trait. Long before anyone cared about authenticity, he was writing about grief and madness while wearing the literary equivalent of a black turtleneck. In this Gen-X retelling of The Raven, we trade cobwebbed chambers for a dim basement apartment, the candle for a lava lamp, and Lenore for the ex who ran off to join a coffeehouse open mic scene in Seattle. Same sorrow, just more flannel and less punctuation.

Nevermore, Dude: The Raven in a Flannel Shirt

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I scrolled through playlists weary
Thinking life was kinda bleary, somewhere between meh and sore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
Like my dial-up modem snapping, crashing just like days before
“Must be rent due,” I muttered, “nothing deep, just that for sure”
Only this and nothing more

Ah distinctly I remember, back in some forgotten November
Every mixtape was a symbol of the love I once wore
Eagerly I sought tomorrow, hoping Prozac numbed my sorrow
For the loss I could not borrow from the girl who slammed the door
From the dark and moody goddess whom I once called Lenore
Nameless now forevermore

And each velvet poster streaming, faintly glowing, gently gleaming
Thrilled me with nostalgic meanings of bands that played before
So that now to still the beating of my tired heart repeating
I stood up despite retreating toward the tapping at my door
“Maybe pizza,” I muttered, “extra cheese and something more”
Quoth my hunger, “Order more”

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitation lasted longer
“Dude,” I said, “whatever’s knocking, knock it off, I’m kinda sore”
But the fact remained unshaken, that the noise refused forsaken
Till I yanked the door and taken stood before the corridor
Empty air and empty hallway and unpaid bills on the floor
Darkness there and nothing more

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there slightly fearing
Wondering if the past was sneering from some spiritual record store
But the silence stayed unbroken, and the words were left unspoken
Till I whispered names as tokens of the love that was before
Then the echo softly whispered back the name I did implore
Whispered faintly “Lenore”

Back into my basement turning, all my lava lamps still burning
Soon again I heard that scratching louder now than once before
“Surely that’s my black-clad neighbor, back again to steal my paper”
Still I muttered, “Dude, behavior, get a job, not metaphor”
When I opened up the window came a bird both smug and bored
Came a raven, flannel-soared

Not the least respect he granted, not a single care he planted
Perched upon my busted speaker just above my beanbag floor
Then with attitude unspoken, as if every word were broken
He just stared, my calm unshaken, with a vibe I can’t ignore
And I muttered through my hangover, “You’re a trip, that’s for sure”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

Much I marveled this ungainly goth-bird talking plain and mainly
Like he’d crawled out from an Alice In Chains encore
Though his answer had no meaning, still I felt a truth was leaning
In the sound of his demeaning tone that burned me to the core
Till I whispered, “Lenore left me, she’s with Chad in Baltimore”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil, tell me, bird or Kurt Cobain’s sequel
By the heavens that still leak through these walls of metaphor
Tell my soul if there’s forgiveness for a man with no ambition
Who still listens to his demo from nineteen ninety-four
Is there hope beyond this flannel, is there truth to seek once more”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

“Fine,” I said, “whatever, birdie, keep your cryptic junk and wordy
I’ve got reruns of The X-Files and a fridge of discount store”
Yet the raven kept on staring, through my soul his gaze was tearing
Like a therapist uncaring charging forty bucks or more
And I felt my pride unravel, like my jeans from ninety-four
Still the raven, “Nevermore”

Then methought the air grew thicker, scented faint with spilled-out liquor
Swirling like my incense from the thrift shop near the shore
“Wretch,” I cried, “the gods have sent thee, booze or maybe MTV
Respite, respite from depression and the loss of my Lenore
Drink deep from this PBR and forget your Lenore”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of darkness, messenger of apathy and smartness
By the flannel that surrounds us, by the souls that still implore
Tell me truly, I implore thee, is there joy left or before me
Will I ever leave this basement or just fade to metaphor
Is there any cure for cynics in this world of metaphor”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

“Prophet,” said I, “thing sarcastic, bird of doom or hip fantastic
By Nirvana and by Soundgarden and by Temple of the Dog I swore
Tell this soul with eyes half-sleeping if beyond this rent-due creeping
There’s a land where love is keeping, maybe somewhere like before
Tell me, will I find Lenore”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or brooding spirit starting
Get thee back into the Hot Topic from which you came before
Leave no feather as a token of the truth your vibe has spoken
Take your gloom and leave me broken, quit the vinyl record floor
Take your judgment and your eyeliner and fly out my basement door”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the busted Sony speaker just above my beanbag floor
And his eyes have all the seeming of a hipster gently scheming
And the lava lamp’s weak dreaming throws his shadow on the floor
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted nevermore

#TheRaven