This week ... month. Uh.
Actually, I don't have predetermined time periods.
This ... time, I wrote a poem for someone very special to me. They've been there in the thick and the thin. During my Ebola scare, during my tetraplegia, leading up to my disappearance and following my reemergence ... during my drowning and all through my deep depression caused by the knowledge that dexterity does not apply to feet. Rather, feet accuracy is called podexterity, apparently. That turned my lift down on its bloated head.
Here's the poem, I'll elaborate afterwards;
Heated dust - a loving thing,
The bones of drones asunder sing,
And in my purse,
By Mummies curse,
I find a humble commodity.
Love is not for losing soul,
Like Elder Scrolls from chapels - stole,
But if you spy,
This milky eye,
Ten points in Scrabble diagonally,
Urge submerged in back allies.
I want you to come back and carry me home,
Away from these long lonely nights,
I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it too,
Does the feeling seem oh so right,
And what would you say if I called on you now,
And said that I can't hold on,
There's no easy way, it gets harder each day,
Please love me or I'll be gone, I'll be gone.
And so by some foreign twist,
Of God's slimey reptile wrist,
A sea of hair,
He says you are the Prodigy.
It took eleven minutes to write and I stole the third bit from 'I'm All Out Of Love' by Air Supply. The message remains the same, obvious as it may be. It's about a young boy I know name Bilfred Saint Guest. He was absent in most defining parts of my life and is actually more of a supporting role in my life. Like one of the murder victims in CSI: Miami. I get to be the guy with the glasses who always says things like "I'm DYING to solve this mystery", "what's a corpse like you doing in a public toilet like this" or "Hey, dead guy. You look DEAD tired."
Long story short. Billy exists.
I'm an idiot and have a lame sense of humour.
Billy, here's to you and all that Voodoo that you do so well.