Jerusalem - Page 217

Appears to have no source save him. Den screams,

An improvised Kurt Schwitters piece that seems

Expressive although inarticulate

And backs in the direction of the door

Which, unlocked, yields at once and opens wide

Whence dazzling rays pour through the gaping hatch

To blind him. Crumpled sleeping-bag forgot

And slammed door ringing like a rifle shot,

Den takes off without bothering to snatch

His shit-smeared sneakers from the step outside

Or to look back. In truth, he doesn’t dare.

The grass is cold and wet – Den has no socks –

As he sprints past the tower blocks – nor a plan –

But then in Crispin Street he spots a man

Whose pale blue eyes and thinning flaxen locks

Are oddly reminiscent, but from where?

Upon Den’s lips unspoken epics burn

And seek release, drugged visions that might be

As those of Coleridge, Cocteau, Baudelaire.

By now he’s reached the guy with sparse blonde hair

Who eyes the gasping boy uncertainly

And asks “Are you alright, mate?” with concern

Made clear. Is Den alright? Aye, there’s the rub,

He thinks, one with De Quincy and Rimbaud,

Preparing for an image-jewelled account

To spill forth as though from some Bardic fount

But all he can come out with is “Yes. No.

Fuck me. Oh, fuck me, I was up the pub.

That’s where I’ve been all night, up in the pub.”

His mouth won’t stop. “They wouldn’t let us go.”

Tags: Alan Moore Fantasy
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