I was going to write a sonnet, but I didn't have the gumption
First my pen ran out of ink, then my hand just wouldn't function
I could not start or stop to think
Things were happening in slow motion
I felt as though I'd surely sink
Into the coldest darkest deepest ocean.
I started off fine, my ambition was evident
But by the 10th line, I'm debauched and decadent.
I hate to write this, my fingers are hesitant,
Nothing else in life is, but failure is permanent.

I had died
my friends had me buried
nine feet underground
in Australia
and they drank to my memory under the Sun.

Nigel was a hired hand
he dug my grave carefully
he talks with an accent and a cigarette
he toils under the Sun for three long days
silver tools chinking away at the hard desert rock.

I took a long ride on the Flying Spoon
up and around the lover's moon
and finally I've come to rest
in this spot under the Sun
nine feet underground
in Australia.

the clouds are mocking me
the stars are bleeding rainbows
the trees are fiery torches
the grass is sharp wet earthworms

the clock on the wall means nothing
the wall is a prickly caterpillar
that will soon emerge as a beautiful speckled butterfly
& it will scoop me up & we will flutter by

the ceiling s leaking paint now
& the couch has disintegrated beneath me
the chandelier is a majestic eagle made of liquid crystals
& my heart is an innocent white rabbit
my arms are two tube socks full of sand
& my feet feel like sleeping
my eyes are just like bowling *****
& my head is bursting with
light & thought & colors & shining metallic dreams

young you
and
young me
shimmy down fire escape
together?