I Won’t Write Your Obituary

I Won’t Write Your Obituary

Si chiama Nora Cooper e questa è la poesia con cui ha gareggiato al Button Poetry, uno slam poetry, cioè una gara in cui i poeti si sfidano leggendo i propri versi. 

Certi numeri sono importanti. 65mila è degno d’essere considerato, se si riferisce alle visualizzazioni di un video su YouTube. E se si tratta di una performance poetica durante uno slam poetry, il dato è titanico.

You ask if you could call to say good bye if you were ever going to kill yourself.
Sure, but I won’t write your obituary.
I will commission it from some dead end journalist
who will say things like
“At peace”
“Better place”
“Fought the good fight”
Maybe reference the loving embrace of the capital G God at least four times
Maybe quote Charles fucking Bukowski and I won’t stop them
Because I won’t write your obituary
But if you call me,
I will write you a new sky
One you can taste
I will write you a DIY cloud maker
So on days when you can’t do anything
You can still make clouds in whatever shape you want them
I will write you letters
Messages in bottles, in cages, in orange peels
In the distance between here and the moon
In forests, in rivers, in bird songs
I will write you songs
I can’t write music
But I’ll find Rihanna
And I’ll get her to write you music if that will make you dance a little longer
I will write you a body
Whose veins are electricity
Because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks
But we will find you a good shrink
I will write you 1-800-273-8255
That’s the suicide hotline
We can call it together
And yeah, you can call me
But I won’t tell you it’s okay
That I forgive you
I won’t say goodbye
Or I love you, one last time
You won’t leave on good terms with me
Because I will not forgive you
I won’t read you your last rites
Absolve you of sin
Watch you sail on a flaming Viking ship
My hand glued to my forehead
I will not hold your hand steady around a gun
And after
I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts you will have left specifically for me
I’ll get a call like “Ma’am, what would you have us do with them?”
And I’ll say, Burn them
Feed them to stray cats
Throw them at school children
Hurl them at the sea
I don’t care
I don’t want them
I don’t want your heart,
It’s not yours anymore
It’s just a heart now
And I already have one
I don’t want your lungs,
Just deflated birthday party balloon
That can’t breathe anymore
I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento
I don’t want your ripped off skin
A blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel you’re still here
You won’t be there
There’s no blood there
There’s no life there
There’s no you there
I want you
And I will write you, so many fucking dead friend poems before
So that people will confuse my tongue for your tombstone
And try to plant daisies in my throat before I ever write you an obituary while you’re still fucking here
So the answer to your question is yes
If you’re ever, really gonna kill yourself
Call me.

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  • Potente, brividi e lacrime. Se non vince, ha comunque già vinto.

    • Non sono riuscita granché a capire l’andamento dello slam. Ma concordo con te. La ragazza sa il fatto suo!

  • Oh mio dio. Meravigliosa.

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