Empty heads in waiting rooms
blanking over posters of death.
Sick green walls, endless dark halls,
metallic tannoy calls, staring china dolls.
Their eyes are glass
but they watch you pass
and as you turn the corner,
your strides become longer
until you’re face to face
with an agoraphobic space.

A table, dripping with blood.
Instruments glitter in the septic light.
The noise of whispers far away
but close enough to hear each word.
She was a screamer.
Those eyes, man!

Feel their eyes follow you,
burn a hole in your back.
Sizing you up, savouring the taste
of the banquet about to follow.
Footsteps, hundreds, behind you.
Turn to look and there’s nothing,
just noise creeping up your spine.
A man with a knife behind you,
hearing every word you thi…
A man with a knife behind you,
So much more could be done with this.
But I'm unsure. Perhaps leaving it ambiguous/vague is better.
Promises meant a lot back then.
I think about your writing sometimes, at very odd moments, when my current situation could resemble some scene I remember vaguely from one of your poems, if only there was this one element, this one guy, this hallucinating shadow with his guts hanging out, right behind me with a dull fillet knife.

And sometimes, I don't look behind me, just in case.

But then I do, just to make sure.