Poem for Matthew Wilson Leary

I 'know' that dark place where you are, 
where you have travelled in familiar moments 
of numbness 
or thinly disguised self-loathing;
the idea of not-being-here looms large
as the proper solution to all the loose-ends
that have become your life.

I've been there (sort of).
I've walked many of the same steps along the way
Only stopping short because
I'm more afraid
of not succeeding
and being more broken.

Many pilgrims have worn your shoes,
walking a similar road -
Plath said:
'Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.'
She practiced long
though noted: '...it feels like hell.'

Perhaps for sceptics 
the way is less tangible
but the demons more visceral.

I feel cheated that I can't turn on the news
and see you there.
Only private mourners in those pale,
blue hills now carry the pain of
longing for you.

Why can't you suddenly re-appear,
telling us all it was just a terrible,
momentary joke?
I wake in the morning trying
to pretend that your death 
is not real. 
I don't want to remember
that mortality stalks us all.

Days go by
and I'm still so sad.
I imagine your face
and pretend you're here.

I see you on that balcony in Drummoyne
smoking your roll-ups
and looking out over the city
with your red hair and your innocence,
joking about poverty and politics.

At least, now
ASIO can scrub your file.
No more Socialist Alliance for you,
my friend.

I'll always remember those days 
when you slept at the foot
of my daughter's bed.
She loved you like
you were part of her.
Oh, how this amputation
must burn. 
She's far too young to
have to grieve so much for you.

I wish that I could have told you
that life was worth the inner pain.
I not so sure myself.
But Lady Lazarus already 
had you in her grip,
rising
'out of the ash'
with (her) red hair
and eating men like air.


Vale 'Brady', December 2014