Before the Kill There’s a ghost in my bathroom a phantom a spirit a spectre an inspector an inspector of marks I don’t like him being there he’s inspecting me, looking at me from the inside from the inside out. Hair-oil toothpaste where is all this going to end I don’t think the health of my gums the shade of my hair matter to him a whit what a wit he can be Up-ending bottles blunting blades (yes, blades, this is beyond a game), pouring cologne from my limited supply he is limitless he transgresses my limits at every point. I don’t think he matters this ghost he has no matter or mind (I don’t mind) he is the spirit of clutter he wishes me well from the depths of Wherever he is this phantom of matter I hear his whisper and wisp in arcs of soap that rise and descend (what a joke) but now I am gone from the mirror. Closing in, he sticks fingers in unguents and oils of which I know nothing; his face appears on the veil every morning; there’s a ghost in my bathroom; I sharpen the razor. David Punter