Mark Goodson, of the MIRACLE of the MUNDANE, tagged me in a writing challenge post. Even though I’m a day behind, I wanted to share this one.
By the pale moonlight, I pledge myself
to thee, you say, laughing, as we obliterate
ourselves with vodka in the backyard.
The serious moonlight, I think, wishing
again that Bowie wasn’t gone, or Prince,
or the queen of my fantasies, Carrie Fisher.
Drunk, I can conjure them: Bowie hides
behind a tree, and Prince, bedecked in purple,
struts out and launches into “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
Carrie Fisher, glaring, walks over to me and says,
You have no fucking idea how much time you have left.
Quit wasting it. I nod, trying to take her seriously,
trying not to think of Princess Leia. I don’t notice
Glenn Frey until I hear the opening of “Hotel California.”
I didn’t summon him, I think, but it doesn’t matter
because I see Lemmy over by the fence, nodding at me
and lighting a cigarette. So I lie back in the grass, listening
to dead music, your cold hand resting on top of mine.