Sunk in a seat-like cavity

nursing prophylactic bruises.

I’ve started on the sweets:

anaesthetics thrust through

bloodshot eyes that analyse

faces in wasted time.

One of those faces is mine.

A counterpart watches

the tranquilised dodges

of doctored mirrors

that beckoned me hither.

We’ve dressed in the dark,

roles learnt by art -

men and women brimming

with malicious intent.

Words ascend in cataracts,

form concrete stacks

between my hat and the ceiling.

I’m a tightly bound shoal of fish,

a jungle of jagged elbows;

I jostle for jokes lost in translation,

for punch lines too long in arriving.

Mouths are too close and collars

too tight to thrive in.

I haven’t a mobile

to savour the action;

my smile is too labile

and should be in traction:

Afraid to be left

with an empty glass,

my fist clings so fast

I fear it’ll smash.

The guys whoop and holler

and urge me to the same.

Scripture scrolls the karaoke screen

and I wonder what I shall be saving.

I’ve swallowed all the sweets.

There’s a lot going on

but nothing is happening.