Thunk.Tink.

Am I a boy in a swamp
wet and putrid
Sodden to blackness?
Slippery and full of things to look at under the microscope?
Playing with cumbersome motions
a rotten chunk of four by four
Older maybe.
Come play with me
We'll fall maybe
Hurt ourselves
Not so many dark birds
Not so many dark thoughts

True, I'm not really interested,
Or I'd rather be messing with  something else

People remark that they could not do what I am doing
What? Nothing?  I'm going with the flow.
That's not to minimize anything.  Really I beg you to believe me.
The secret is all the tumult, upheaval, nauseating reappraisal, and just being
in one of those dark dark fever places , places of
confusion.

Is it not a horrid bath of confusion leading to no certain end?
Broken flesh and broken footfalls?

Sometimes
I imagine a torrent of tears
rushing
tsunami
through the house,
so much water washing everything

But sometimes I imagine that a final final wave of sparkle music
follows Tinkerbell's wand through the room
scintillatingly, shimmeringly
delightedly,and with grace
The way Tink would have liked it.