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