sleeplessly asking

is, i ask, is water only

a metaphor or

can i drink it

and wash?

is the body

ugly when it ages,

do wrinkles make

it dirty? or is it the 

concept of dying

which colors

mind and soul?

why is death

not beauty? 

the release of suffering

cannot be ugly,

frailty is not dirty.

we grew up with nappies,

and we were loved,

smelly and hairless

and like the demented,

understanding poorly

and depending on help.

did we feel ugly?

i cannot remember,

just the first bursts
of spite and joy,
and this is past.
now an old man,

must i feel dirty,
must i see me ugly
or you, judge the
other by the specific

stink of excrements,
or will my soul allow
love to rule perception
when i am naked or you?

what is this shit, the
culture of melancholy
and decay, the morbid
tasting of life ending

when it still begins
each morning, each night,
with sun and moon
and the memory of stars?

i will not give myself
into this frame, will burn
this crippled photography,
set to flames all

what speaks against
life in cold thought,
and i will give in
when fire freezes:

this is when i will
go into the stratosphere,
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust

and not one moment
not one second
before the time
will have come.

Then, only then,
let me sleep,
let me stay out
breathing with the dead.

PS: 
i was interrupted. my friends are cooking.
one burst in: the potatoes are boiled! :-)