The brain sprayed coated mind glistens with a sheen of crystallised alcohol and cocaine.

The old worn masks of guilt, shame torturing the sugary stickiness of modern life. 

One of the depressing things about arriving in a fifth-rate hotel is the knowledge that you are going to find bent wire coat-hangers jangling in a rickety wardrobe. Sometimes when I arrive at a meeting I find the analogy of the bent coat-hangers jangling there co-dependent chatter disturbing, as if I am sat in the anti-chamber to death and keep hearing the same boring story day after day of mental pain and anguish. The inability to change the constantly stuck record makes my head throb. The old worn masks of guilt shame torturing the sugary stickiness of modern life. The constant monkey chatter of materialistic dross, the painted mask of what I had been or what I might of have been casts us into the purgatory of endless dull pain. Idiotic manipulation of thought and emotions cast from the rickety wardrobe of discontented dreams. Occasional flashes of hate and fear shine like honest lightening flashing across the painted predictable faces as they awake from a brief second before they slump back into there materialistic spoon fed dreamland.

The brain sprayed coated mind glistens with a sheen of crystallised alcohol and cocaine. Washed by a delicate shade of television advertising after diner vodka and lime fighting the attention deficit that hides bad relationships and inability to communicate.

The four pill syndrome of valium mogadon fight to quieten the brains electrical impulses that might fire a synaptic flash to restart the sleeping mind. Old memories of long dead relatives reinforce the stereotypes of bygone ages crippling with warm blankets of echoing voices in the room.Tales of abuse and dysfunction cascade into the rooms to excuse sonambulance sleepers as the unconscious mind backfires into a recovery myth that only the sleeping understand. The co-dependent vampire mamma and dad of the past weave there tapestry of shame, manipulation and blame.

Sleeping scorpions recite from dead tombs reading old worn out solutions to new addictive invaders that constantly change the once delicate balance of the mind. The incessant ring of an Iphone completes with a blackberry sheepish grins brake the masks as they feverishly fight to turn off the unwanted addictive visitor, the technological dealer in control, pain and anguish. Announcing to world the ground breaking news of a five year recovery tattoo, a recovery birthday cake congratulations on five year sleep over. Ghosts of denial or not quite knowing, flutter like existentialist moths around the fluorescing tubes of doubt, alighting on unwary. The sleepers run down the corridors of the train hopping to evade the final destination of station relapse or the buffet coach. cocaine cockroaches scrabble amongst the white crumbs of the coach floor. The coat hangers quieten in the rickety wardrobe of recovery.

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