the beauty of incontinence

So I’ve decided that I’m going to be Shakespeare and that I am going to write a love sonnet for you, my dear. I believe that I will be able to do it, effectively so, because, and this is the crux of my argument so attune your ears to this here note – I love you. And that, I think, is a sonnet in itself. Because when I look at you I see poetry in its most noble, walking form. I see the sun sink into the mountains and shy from the clouds, as the great grey balls of fluff move in for the storm, to shower us in the most beautiful excrement. And then we are caught in the torrential madness of it all and we twirl our umbrellas and poke each other, with the metal pointed end, playfully on the cushy parts of our thighs. Because we are cushy now, aren’t we. That happens in age. When the clock has twisted round enough. We sip our tea and rest on our soft laurels and we are glad, oh so glad, that we have made it to three o’clock and that we can still sit upright, albeit a little bent, and later, when we want to, still stand, albeit a little wobbly. We have our days now, dear friend! The days are ours and we rejoice. We piss on our sheets and in our pants when we laugh. And it does not matter at all! We have the days, my friend. All the days to piss and then wash and then piss again, if we please. Oh, yes. It is remarkable. Oh, yes. I am happy.