Whenever I'm not drunk enough
is a waste of time.
I carry within me a hypnagogic dawn,
maybe the insulation gnawed by rats,
maybe I'll never be back.
Ha ha to the mating swans.
Ha ha to the sepulchral golden slime
that shines and shines and shines.
This party started long before I arrived
with the last of wacko youthful chatter,
a curious crew, prone to slam-dance depression.
What's the matter? Don't know, maybe so
much hilarity is a strain on us or at least
we like to boast in loopy communiques
to those who've seen through us
and love us for what they see,
maybe some trees, a packing factory,
some secretive birdie hopping about
with a grasshopper in its mouth.
I don't know what I'd do without you
although that's how I spend most of my time.
It'd be unbearable otherwise,
like a vacation without sleeping pills,
without some creaking rain
abating the granite's breakdown.
Such a paltry gesture, my surrender.
Copyright © 2008, Dean Young
