The supposition of a loveless life lacks visible proof – evidently; ghosts twirl in soft tissue with superstitious choirs belting ditties behind veiled doors. The phantasm of a lovely life never becomes the protagonist; blindfolded mice line the corridors, searching for Roquefort; no pudding can be found.

I fear their faces. Vague outlines in the morning mist drawn by dry fingers like tokens of love across a steamed up shower shield. 

I fear their blank faces and peering grey eyes staring back at us;  delineated tadpole people ambling with the trepidations of drops slowly sliding down through moisture abandoned on vacant shower shields. 

I fear their faces, low brows and blood-red diamond eyes splashed by hostile water; a shower head spewing out lies to entice our rotting corpses to confess; to bathe in sulphuric acid without need for shower shields. 

I fear their faces, and the new day they bring. 

Like the Heartless Like, red turned white, the Sarcastic Thumbs-up lack a first digit: the Wooden Club of approval crushes every skull, washes every mind – blank. 

So many decisions to make; but not today. Tonight I will dine on liquorice and juniper juice, the Dutch courage flowing, and tomorrow I might decide on another future; another path towards infinity and the shadowlands beyond. There is much to decide, too much haze to find a path, less trodden or not. 

I carry paranoia in a black briefcase,
brown empty envelopes
creased stained sheets to be signed 
brown paper bags;
my stained tie reeks of brown sauce 
blue blood and paranoid thoughts
of wind and windows and roofs 
soaring across a stormy sky,
and creaking ceilings
and creaking floors
and creaking doors 
— locked. 

I carry paranoia in a black briefcase,
on a black unwanted tie and in a mind 
bent on creaking.