EXIT IX – Yes­ter­day, I saw you turn

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— Geplaatst in poëzie, vrij vers

(for J. S.)

EXIT IX – Yes­ter­day, I saw you turn
Yes­ter­day, I saw you turn around
The cor­ner unintentionally
Vir­tu­ally impos­si­ble: a life­time ago you ram­b­led away
Lea­ving your flashy voice echo­ing inside my head

I thought – no I heard – Gins­berg declaim I saw the best minds of my gene­ra­tion dest­royed by mad­ness, star­ving hys­te­ri­cal naked...
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares

And then your disas­trous elo­quence still haun­ting me, landed upon me, silen­ced me

Were you calling me?

I won’t come

No. I won’t come. I won’t lis­ten no more to the brigh­test of minds of my generation
I have a bright mind of my own now and I assure you I won’t be there

You wal­ked by, and I let you pass and fade away around the corner
Wit­hout tempta­tion, no cra­ving, no aver­sion, no run­ning after you, yel­ling your name, your name
Assu­ring you, I hold to you no blame, no blade I carry

That some­ti­mes, only some­ti­mes cuts you up, sporadically
Dead friends don’t age nor wizen up
Friends­hip dies
With them, that is the honest truth
So, let me be clear you don’t get to invite me to your sui­cide over­dose party anymore

I won’t come, I won’t be there, I won’t attend

Yes, I how­led with you gone, how­led lou­der than ever we laug­hed, it seems, and man
How we laug­hed, how we played mind game, cre­a­ted, thought, idead, drea­med and nightmared
We twi­sted and tur­ned and sha­ped until nothing left

Meet in the deep night, in dark alleys, where men stand in the rain, in bars where men piss in each other’s mouths
Where sis­sies dres­sed up like men in lea­ther silently mouth Whit­ney Hous­ton songs
I will always love you; I want to dance with some­body; All at once

I miss you
All at once I rea­lise that one must be someone’s best friend for a brief chap­ter before perishing
Like a lit ciga­rette, or a box of cigarettes
Like an out­break, a heart­break, a mind-break

Died friends don’t have bir­th­days, they get memorial
They get well deser­ved praise, and love and how much I miss you
And pos­si­bly some rage, rage against the dying of the light

Antony Oomen