ROOM. 148
(Benjamin.)

This morning,
as I showered.
I saw the face of
Genghis Khan
appear,
just fleetingly
in the suds,
as the swirled at the drainpipe
he brandished,  a grinning leer
and then was gone.

This morning,
in my coffee,
institution brewed.
There he was Van Gogh,
Vincent,  from when,
he still had an ear.
Today, blue paint,
smudged his nose.

In the carpet, after
the cleaning lady had
come.
Amy Whitehouse
visited n'said,
"Rehab might have been
useful afterall."

They the faces, concerned,
and attached to bodies,
encumbered by white cloth.
Tell me, this is non-classic
pariedolia, a symptom of a larger syndrome.

And  if I wanted, to improve
my state of well being,  
that I should not
have any further....hmm
conversations...huhuh,
with the people.

I see in,
the woodgrain of the  
dining  table,
or the man in the
light's moonlike  cover,
or the chap in the door,
of the communal bathroom's
stall wall.

Yet I won't listen,
I don't trust them.

And besides, my buddy Freud
who pops up with the toast.
Told me today,  
"They don't know,
what they are,
talking about.
Not at all, not at all."
In any case,
my muses pariedoliac,
are far better
conversationalists.

With them, I have a ball!!!


ROOM 212
(Gwendolin.)

Today, I am good!

But some days.

My mind, is a battlefield
and I the maniac,
with the finger.
Hovering over the big red button.
So wanting to:
slam my hand down and end it, all.

On other days,
I barely have the energy within,
to lift my head from the
grey, black sludge,
I am drowning in.
On those days,
breathing is sisyphean task and the world is a *******
ball.
Balanced precariously,
on a weary and depressed Atlean hand,
as he drops defeated to the sand.

Then, there are the days I am so up and bright and bubbly
I am appalled and I exhuast myself with my happiness.


But truly, the worst days are,
when,
I am all this and more.
Those are the days,
that my mind becomes,
a feudal state.
Where I am foresaken
to the rage of mutiple realities, engaged in battles for prime position.
I struggle valiantly,
to hold, the bastion of sanity,  painstakenly created and found, in the smallest corner,
of my brainspace,
But they rage and rant
and roil and take,
my precious sanity,
and soil it,
in their mindless games.

And at the end,
of those days.
I am left to pick up
what is left of me
All the tattered pieces
and start all over again.

But the medication helps
smooth me out a lot, it does.

ROOM 179
(Bob.)

"Hello, do you have
a word for me?"

"Blatherskite, oh
you beautiful thing"

"Wordscore 21"

We can begin now,
I know I am not normal.
That I think differently to most.
My mind, is a mendicant,
beggarly thing.
Sitting in library corners.
It's arms held up in supplication, palms outstretched
begging alms, of dictation.
And slathering like a dog,
at a feasting table
snatching at syllables
and sentences.

I sit for hours engrossed
in thesuari
and would gleefully
stab your back multiple times
if you  carried a rare dictionare.

I am a wordaholic
words they are my
sorrowing addiction.

My scrabble tiles,
runic of my affliction.

When stressed the
smoothness
of a spelling bee
is my only solace.

I want to be very clear
I do not see my
addiction
as a affliction
adversely
affecting,
autonomy
but, the
surgeons
of the
psyche
differ,
in their
extrapolation,
of my
lexigraghical
pre occupation
apropos,
vis a vi,
my life
and functionary
state, therewith.
So my tiles and I,
stationarilary
codepend
in this spatial
reality,
until my
mind can find
a state
of equilibrium.

And to be brutally honest
with you.
I don't think that will be
soon,sooner, soonest.

When I think of you
my insides get very squirmy
                       like a barrel of live fishes.
                                                   I do not know if I like it or not.
It sometimes seems as if maybe I am full of you
                                               and there is no room left for me
                                 or my thoughts.
                 I think I’m okay with that part of it.
There is no shortage of thoughts to be thought,
                                                                ­         I am sure.

I find your way of being in the world
           **** and soothing.
Your mind smells very comforting to me
                                and the smell sticks in my soul
            for what feels like ages.
It smells like a room made of great dark wooden shelves
          full of books
                     and a big leather chair
                            next to a tall window
                                  open to a view of the woods
                                           and the rain.
                   Maybe a hint of
                               bourbon and cigar smoke
                                                   hang in the air.
I would love nothing more than to curl up in this room
                and lose myself.

It can be hard to breathe
                           when you are close.
If you do go out of your way to smell nice,
          I would probably miss it.
                       (Because it’s hard to breathe, you know.)
If I didn’t miss it,
             I might pass out
                              from trying to catch my breath.

I told you once that I don’t like it
                                 when you touch me.
               That it makes me crazy.
I have wondered since why I said that
                         when what I really meant was
      that your slightest touch sets my insides off
                                                       like a ******* carnival ride.
I very much do want you to touch me
          I just couldn’t trust
                                        how I felt
                          about all the touching.
I was afraid that when you touched me,
                             however innocently,
             you would feel my soul quiver
                                           and you would recoil.
It seems that you really pluck my strings.
Even if you don’t mean to be doing it.

When you place your body too near mine
                                                                ­                   ‘in my bubble’
          I feel as if I am a little waterfall
and you are putting your fingers in the water
                                                               to see it
                                           interrupt
                     the flow.  
I do not really mind the interruption
                                       but I am wary
                   of letting it become a habit.
I believe that you merely
        explore your environment
                       like a curious child
and will be moving on once satisfied
so I try not to hold on too tight.
                                But I want to devour you completely all the same.

       I know that you have mind bullets,
                                                        ­        even if you don’t.
Thus I am not sure if my impressions are my own    
                                                                ­           psychotic creation
              or if you have somehow gained access
    to my brainspace.
                         Maybe I’m paranoid.
You have certainly spent enough time
                                              on my mind
                         to at least be cordial with the doorman.
                                                        ­  That is an invitation of sorts.
I wonder if you simply accepted the invite
                   or if I have made a hostage of you in my mind.
           Because I’m not sure I believe
                          that you actively sought entrance to this carnival.

Every bit of what falls from your lips
                                        in my direction
     is almost lost in the scramble to decipher the real meaning.
There are so many layers
                                          to human experience.
I have difficulty keeping my awareness
                   on the proper layer
          at the proper time
            and thus I agonize over all that might’ve been meant
                                                        by what was actually said.
I assume you are speaking on more than one level
           at least some of the time,
         but you know what they say about assuming.
Your words often feel heavy with extra meaning,
                   but I never seem to catch on in time
                   or have a clever enough response.
I long to crawl inside your mind
and rummage through
        until I find the section regarding layers of awareness.
                            That would definitely be a conversation
                       worth having.

When you asked if there was anything in your moustache
                                                           and made that sweet face
            I wanted to tell you “Kisses!”
                             but I did not know if you really only meant
                            “Is there something stuck in my moustache?”
Or if you knew that they were there
and wanted assistance
with their removal.
                                                   So I just told you “Nope.”

                   I wish I would’ve said anything else.