"

He abruptly shut down the conversation,

the gathering, the get-together
with a resounding “Nope!”
and shooed us out,
always the same way,
as if it were urgent,
as if something were on fire,
as if it were imminent;
never gradually—no turning off a lamp,
no quick bathroom break, no silencing the stereo,
no clearing things away,
no stretching or a yawn...
No! Immediately! On the spot! NOW!
As if he’d held out to the breaking point,
as if he’d suffered enough,
as if he had to flee to safety,
as if he’d made it this far against all odds;
as if the bubble had suddenly burst…

– and like so many times over the years,
we found ourselves fumbling for our belongings
in the hallway,
while the apartment was plunged into deep darkness,
silence gripping Swami’s party pad
at Lilla Strömgatan 3,
as we tumbled down the half-staircase and out over the veranda,
back to our private lives,
with Om Kalsoum and Frank Zappa still ringing in our heads,
our footsteps crunching the gravel in the heavy autumn darkness
or under the grainy light of summer nights
laden with discomfort and abruptly halted drunken revelries