In the third year of the last nineties my brother committed suicide.
(The word 'committed' I find an insulting euphemism).
Anyway, he committed his final.

It was the vacuum cleaner's wire he used for sucking himself right into new life.
The unnatural circle he arrived in, killed him quickly (they said).

Last winter, a friend of mine left too.
She met her last moment in the basement of her appartment.
In the quietness of a concrete room, where she feeded herself with collected prescripted candies.
She chose the basement for not disturbing the cats.
(My friend was a Szymborska-adept).

I love my brother - he's a close fellow-soul.
He loves me and by now he certainly will have more essential knowledge than I can imagine.

There are pictures of him on which he looks like John Lennon.
(thank God noone ever told him that).

My brother was a drinker.
He drank and drank,
He drank more ~~~ and more ~~~~ and more ~~~~~.
Every next day he'd quit, he believed, but he always found himself drowned;
in a bottle, or in a can.

He also was a writer.
A real writer.
A good and published author.
He didn't like John Lennon.
And he certainly didn't like Szymborska.

But I'm searching for a vacuum cleaner poem,
Because as far as I know, there is none.

20-11-2012 --- (1-9-2012)