[continued from previous message]   
      
   the morning light was blasting clean.   
      
   So... basically, the speaker had gotten drunk and/or stoned, passed out   
   either here or there, woke up contemplating whether he should return to   
   someone or something, rambled incoherently about how his life (or the   
   life of someone else) passed him by... until the morning lights dimmed,   
   blasting his head clean.   
      
   Got it.  NOT!   
      
      
   >>>>>  Morning's clearer   
   >>>>>  I've been forgetting it.   
      
   Donkey, Donkey, Donkey [shakes head], always with the pronouns.  The   
   speaker has been forgetting what?   
      
   And how can morning be "clearer" when it had never been described as   
   being "unclear"?   
      
      
   >>>>>   
   >>>>>  Your thoughts seem to stream   
   >>>>>  like a highway   
      
   Light streams.  Highways don't.   
      
   Who is the speaker addressing?  Himself?  The morning?  The unidentified   
   person whose "uncaused" and "untraced" life had passed him by?   
      
      
   >>>>>  dimming lights seem to streak   
   >>>>>  like hitch-hikers.   
      
   "Hitchhikers" is not hyphenated.   
      
   Why would morning lights be dimming again?  Usually the ambient light   
   increases as the sun continues its ascent.   
      
   And why are the hitchhikers streaking?  I realize this was written in   
   the 70s when streaking as still a thing, but I don't believe that the   
   two (hitchhiking and streaking) went together.   
      
   And even if there were dim streaks of light in your "here" (or,   
   possibly, "there"), how does dim light recall a hitchhiker (naked or   
   dressed)?   
      
      
   >>>>>  When does this dream end?   
      
   WHEN DOES THIS GODAWFUL POEM END???   
      
   I'm not joking, Donkey.  A poem needs to grab, and hold, the reader's   
   interest. Since I have no idea what you poem is about (other than your   
   waking up still feeling the effects of the previous night's drugs), I   
   have *ZERO* interest in it.   
      
   I don't know who is speaking.  I don't know who he's speaking to.  I   
   don't know what he's prattling on about.  Hell, I don't even know if   
   he's here or there.   
      
   And, as a consequence, I cannot invest any interest (much less feelings)   
   into his (non-) story.   
      
   >>>>>  When do I get on up the road?   
      
   "Get on up the road"?  That's not even decent backwoods slang.  When   
   speaking about reaching a destination (literal, spiritual, etc.), one   
   says "down" the road.  "Up" the road implies back to the start of your   
   journey.   
      
   >>>>>  The light sped out   
   >>>>>  like a fire-fly   
      
   "firefly" is not hyphenated.   
      
   So the dimming, streaking, hitchhiking light is now a hastily departing   
   firefly?   
      
   Pick ONE metaphor and stick with it.   
      
      
   >>>>>  like gravestones   
   >>>>>  never noticed   
   >>>>>  never seen.   
      
   OMFG!   
      
   Now the dimming, streaking, hitchhiking, hastily departing firefly like   
   light has turned into unseen gravestones???   
      
   I can't wait to discover what the morph into next.   
      
   >>>>>  Like marbles   
   >>>>>  spilling from shattered minds.   
      
   There it is!   
      
   They went from dimming, to streaking, to hitchhiking, to hastily   
   departing fireflies, to unseen gravestone, to marbles spilling from   
   shattered minds.   
      
   And this is the end of the poem?   
      
   What was the topic?  The speaker lying in the "Here" or "There"?  The   
   unknown person he was addressing?  Someone's life having passed -- or   
   passed by?  Contemplating returning to... something?  Or the bizarre   
   transformation of the morning light?   
      
   I would like to say that this is bad, even for you, but it's really just   
   par for the course as Donkey poems go: incoherent, incompetently   
   written, and terminally uninteresting.   
      
   --   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)