The Dying Words Of My Last Friend Here it is, liberation! He's got tubes coming out of every orafice and he can't talk because he's too busy gasping. And I think, here it is, death - my chance to witness And his soul doesn't come out. He just lies there, dead. Man, I beat his chest. Where is that fucking soul? I scream man where is that fucking soul so fucking loud the nurses come in and take hold of me and caress my head and I'm like man, why are you caressing me? I'm not dead. The windows are sealed. His soul could not have escaped. And I break away from the nurses and beat his chest again WHERE is your fucking soul? Because I know this man was someone not the man I sat with in cafés drinking absinthe with, nor cigarette after cigarette, shared dying with. And slowly I clock it. No more conversations about nothing, no more drinking without purpose, no more talking about women and dying no more no more no fucking more. And then I don't beat his chest anymore asking for his soul, I touch his dead skin, clammy. And I'm sick because it's the skin of a dead man. What is this shit in front of me? Where is my brother, where is my friend? I can't howl like a primative because it was friend, he was my friend dead, he is my friend still, he is dead he was my friend and his last words were the last I will ever hear from him. -- Steve Chilson stevechilson@xxxxxxxxxxx -- http://www.fastmail.fm - IMAP accessible web-mail ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html