outside me is plus

I sit at the office, facing the computer
but my mind is elsewhere
and I let it go, not calling it back
--wandering off is medicine

on her journey my mind sees:
it's snowing quietly,
streets and shopwindows are lit and sparkly
(metallic red, red everywhere),
new postings by friends appear

I may wither inside,
but outside of me it's blooming
and that persuades me to stay alive
until I'm finally free to breathe

Chinese water poisoned

lieing in still water
waste oil floating on the surface, poison underneath
I mirror my reflection from the slick;
it's distorted and sickly in colour
-- or is it me?

I certainly feel ill;
the metal band clasping my head
is so painfully real it's almost visible,
food smells nice, tastes nice (for the first two bites)
but it makes me nauseous

I'd like to take a shower ten times a day
to wash off this weariness
and not lie in this filthy, sickening water
not going anywhere, not getting clean

I sigh

just now,
to my dismay,
I came to unpleasantly realise
that many dear people around me
have given in

they call it 'being real';
I say it's hopelessness
-- if you cover your eyes with your hands,
of course you can't see!

but I'm too tired
(dried up by fever and not eating in days)
just too tired to argue

so go! fall down the stairs and call it inevitable
break yourself, be bruised and battered
and say you saw it coming

when I see something coming
-- I step away

rude word, beautiful thing

'text'
what a rude and abrubt word
for something as touching as you

(that's what you are, text-only -- for now)

I believe that sometime in life
you'll be here
to be seen, to be heard, to be touched

my belief is warm and soft,
a cosy blanket on a chilly evening
guaranteed to keep me from the cold

so I sit in the darkening night
making me a blanket,
producing you

it is not desperation,
at least not yet
but it is, undoubtedly,
not real