The Zen of Jim Morrison

I was counselled last night

by an energetic Jim Morrison

who refused to sit down

He listened intently to

the things that I had on my mind

and after seeming to think over each one

he'd hold up his arms like a champion

and shout, “Fuck it!”

Now to me in my dreams

this energetic Jim Morrison

pacing about- a panther in leather

seemed to have it all worked out

Each 'Fuck it' gave artful wings to a problem

and out of the tenth floor window it would flutter

Until finally I had none- I was reborn

Jim staggered and sat down like a preacher who'd just given up the spirit

one leg over the arm of the couch

I stood up to leave the room

but looking back I realised he was dying

His colour had left him and his breathing was laboured

“Jim Morrison, what can I do?” I asked

more aware of his celebrity and a little nervous

His head stooped and I had to push him back

to prevent him falling off the couch.

“Jesus Christ! Have I taught you nothing man?”

he slurred with a dying man's grin

“You know what to do.”

I did know what to do, sort of

“Fuck it?” I ventured tentatively

keeping one hand on his heavy shoulder

“Come on man!” he laughed and then coughed terribly

I took my hand off his shoulder and let James D Morrison of The Doors

fall unceremoniously onto the one side of his face; I'd never seen anyone look so dead

I raised my arms, clenched my fists and screamed, “Fuck it!”

This gave him wings, not the biggest or prettiest but they would do hopefully

I'd need more practice he muttered as he unfurled and stood up

“Fuck it friend,” he said with goodbye in his blue-grey eyes

Then he stage-dived out of the open window