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| LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf. |
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When Charlie Manson Came To Me
Aryan Kaganof
When Charlie Manson came to me
I was sitting on Aunty Fay's balcony,
watching the waves trying to get out of the sea.
I heard his message loud and clear,
he told me to be true and not to fear
because the dawn of freedom was very near.
(I talk a lot of bullshit a lot of the time.
That's time wasted, and it's my time
I'm wasting, I got that now.
You can't serve God and Mammon at the same time
Is what Jesus said...
but look here JC, I'm not here to serve.
I tried that and it's not my bag.)
Hegel says you are what you say.
But who the hell is Hegel to me anyway?
I'm never sure where my path will take me
but it's the only one I'm on.
I'm not a bum, even though I sometimes act like one...
Woke up this morning with a hangover
Still crying from last night's drunk goodbyying.
We had our best time on Sea Point beach one cold and windy day.
I held her so damn tightly.
Really squeezed her.
She squeezed me back even harder.
Popped all that emptiness right out of me.
(Moments and memories are jewels you get attached to.
I don't wear jewellery.
Got to keep moving.
Today into tomorrow
There's no stopping the being becoming. )
I said goodbye to her with a poem by Leonard Cohen.
Spoke it into her cell phone.
In Berlin they call it a Handy.
She wore her eyes like they were recovering from all the tears she'd ever cried.
The night we met - it was a Sunday - she sat down opposite me in a Long Street bar.
Her eyes said "Howzit" in a Joburg accent.
We took a taxi back to Sea Point.
When she asked what did I need her for, I said I didn't need her at all.
But I was lying.
But sometimes you've got to protect yourself from too much crying.
When Charlie Manson came to me I was sunning myself on Aunty Fay's balcony, watching the stars crash landing in the sea.
Sometimes you don't even know the muse has come
until it's over and the girl is gone.
She wore her eyes in many layers,
some of which I peeled,
but her deepest secrets remained unrevealed.
When I left I told her I had a destiny,
not to live by preaching but by example.
Then I sauntered down Main Road to my post box.
Found a lot of letters, but not a single cheque.
Well you can't serve both God and Mammon.
Hey Jesus I don't want to serve anyone,
I just want my cheque - it's mine
I earned it writing one of those crazy little stories.
Now Charlie's gone back to the Devil who made him,
Aunty Fay's spending the weekend in Pretoria.
I said goodbye to a girl who wore her eyes like two cold marble medallions.
When Charlie Manson came to me I was sitting on Aunty Fay's balcony,
sipping Gin and Tonic effortlessly.
His voice was cracked and hoary,
Told me a gripping tarot story
about the Fool on life's complex journey.
Explained the Wheel of Fortune and how it's turning.
Explained love, romance and yearning.
The Fool's true self was in the centre,
His gross body on the outside,
Its fate confronting.
His mind stuck in what the mind does - thinking.
And all the wisdom Charlie expounded
went into my soul like a wave and it pounded
me from within and then I could understand
why the Son of Man had to go down for his Father.
See it wasn't Man the Son of Man died to save, it was the Father,
who heartlessly sacrificed his only Son.
The Son of Man said: "All things are delivered to me of my father,
and no man knoweth the Son but the Father,
neither knoweth any man the Father save the Son."
Now with all he knew about Charlie, what else could the Son of Man do?
And on the cross, forsaken, crying "Eloi, Eloi Lama Sabachthani?"
He was just another son suffering for the sins of his father.
The finally I understood Charlie's parable.
Thanked him for delivering it to me out of the mouths of gulls.
Poured out another G&T, carefully sliced a lemon, added ice,
looked into the mirror, sipping it nice.
Burst out laughing, enjoying the tears of a Fool that I was crying.
Thank you Charlie for not giving up on me after I'd given up on you.
Thank you Jesus up on your cross for exposing your Dad.
I am the Fool and that's not all that bad.
LitNet: 21 July 2005
Did you enjoy this poem? Have your say! Send your comments to webvoet@litnet.co.za,
and become a part of our interactive opinion page. Or submit your own poetry
to Anton Krueger for consideration.
back / to the top
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© Kopiereg in die ontwerp en inhoud van hierdie webruimte behoort aan LitNet, uitgesluit die kopiereg in bydraes wat berus by die outeurs wat sodanige bydraes verskaf. LitNet streef na die plasing van oorspronklike materiaal en na die oop en onbeperkte uitruil van idees en menings. Die menings van bydraers tot hierdie werftuiste is dus hul eie en weerspieël nie noodwendig die mening van die redaksie en bestuur van LitNet nie. LitNet kan ongelukkig ook nie waarborg dat hierdie diens ononderbroke of foutloos sal wees nie en gebruikers wat steun op inligting wat hier verskaf word, doen dit op hul eie risiko. Media24, M-Web, Ligitprops 3042 BK en die bestuur en redaksie van LitNet aanvaar derhalwe geen aanspreeklikheid vir enige regstreekse of onregstreekse verlies of skade wat uit sodanige bydraes of die verskaffing van hierdie diens spruit nie. LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf.
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