orange fridge

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I experience this world as though I’m dead..

dead centre of it. I feel cold as hell

on shoulder, and the warmth of bod in bed

(that isn’t in the body of ol’ Dell).

Her body lies in fune’ral parlour fridge

in Brisbane, where her girl and grandson said

they visited her yes-ter-day to squidge 

her hair still pinned out of her eyes - for bed.

There’s something I perceive (with eyes of mind,

or heart - the part that speaks and feels and “means”)

that isn’t understood by dust, I find.

I think it can’t be, for they’ve ‘dys-ed’ all dreams

and longings, and commitments, friendship, hate…

Reductionists. They start defining them

as simply artifacts of a whole spate

of “concrete” chemicals and forces when

they walked behind a mirror in their world,

and found no space to live a 3D life.

The two dimensions they allowed were curled 

inside a silver lined glass sheet. No strife.. 

seems in that world - where no-one ‘lives’ at all.

Just molecules and membranes that get formed 

into some sheets to rest the dead that call

to take a peek. Not thinking they’ll be stormed

& overcome by pow’rful deluge or

maybe just a delusion; but it's strong.

The insight that comes to me now is more

like “Ask for help, where it's been all along”.

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