(Before you begin you’re read, go to the bottom of the page and press play on the video. Reading Fagan’s story with his song, makes for just the right atmosphere. Fagan would like that. 😉 )
Fagan, it’s Friday, I miss all your story’s, the wheezing in pain of your oratory, the silence, the mystery, of picture’s, of dazzling past glory. I hear your chilling effects, a gift from the dead, I can’t seem to rest until this little poem has been said! Cheapened by fables and life’s worst labels, Fagan has syndrome deficiency acquired as disease. Protease inhibitors and gin as he glances at dying, he giggles at pain as we meet. It’s bullets and weapons a lost art of killing, I’m a talking old solider do you not recognize my defeat. Old couches and lovers have brought me the kingdom a gift from the devil while I was on my knees.
“I have lived from forty-six years, this flailing of warfare has settled my thoughts, of my needs. What is a minute when time is increased though it is leased? Is heaven ready for one talking old solider, lord, Fagan’s ready, why tease me by asking me to submit one more fleece. There is not time to love one more rhyme, I’ve championed my life, with lovers and wine, but still you keep me too long in this way. My kidneys are gone, my lungs won’t last long from this day. Why am I here, when reality fears, what I say? Inflame my heartache oh breath of my life, you have given me dismay.”
Sit’s Fagan a queer man, his honor invested in acumen logic, all medical procedures with his life held in play. A talking old soldier while AIDS eats his body away. G-D loves you dear Fagan, you are his own warrior, you are his receptor, hell in its laughter will not defeat victory this way. Run when you’re over, by then you’ll be sober, and pain will be melted away. Fagan you’re larger than cannons and missiles, greater than judgment of words of small people. I see you old solider, making me better this day.
“I’m just in your nature, the sum of your labor, we’ve talked on for hours, a talking old soldier of memory. You’ve helped me through sorrow, now please ask your G-D to relieve my life of tomorrow. What sin is there, that my father brought down to me, judges me mercilessly for this travesty? I see a loss of dead hero’s, tell them I’m hurt please. Burn my body, favor me friend, do not incinerate my memory.”
Dear Fagan, old warrior, a talking old solider, someday in endeavor, I’ll write your war story, someday you’ll be stronger, your debt owed no longer, and when you look outward some light you will ponder, a talking old soldier an epic of a warrior’s destiny.
Fagan passed from this life in March of 1999, from complications of AIDS. He was forty-six years old. Each Friday I would drive to his small apartment, and more likely than not he would have his belly full of gin, and we would laugh and talk through his pain. He loved to play Elton John’s “Talking Old Soldier’s” over and over again as we would talk. For him it was the story of his present life. He taught me much. I miss you my friend. Kiss the face of G-D for me this day Fagan, I have told your story at long last as promised, and someone who should, will read it. – 08.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל
All rights Talking Old Soldiers/ John/Taupin