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.
poem/s created as an exercise from
three words supplied by poet friend.
the words were
mendicant, feudal &pariedolia;
no other instructions were given.
.....this is a work of fiction.
