Mike Dirnt.

Old fashioned crooner, like those
Cockney anarchists that congregated and
burned that female dictator with
volatile lyrics and faulty electricity.

His eyes a misty blue, dreaming
of more than bronze, more than third
place in the Olympiad extravagance
of his companions.

Arms full of tribal scrawls of
mercury and Indian ink. They speak
of a hidden memory, a melancholy
grin deep within his muscular
barricades.

His hair never seems to remain at one
hue, always changing direction
on the spectra of infinite colour,
like the Moon always changing the
waves of the sea to suit himself.

I wonder what his pallid, opium
calm mind thinks about
when tornadoes scream
and death calls
like a salesman.

Wow..

I liked it... A lot.

I wasn't sure when I read the first few lines... but it's actually a very well written poem.

Nice work.

^^ same what she said. it was very good

I really like it and everything... It just makes me laugh a bit knowing who it's about. But if you forget the title, it transforms into a wonderful poem. Good job.