Jerusalem - Page 218

Won’t pause. “Fuck me. Fuck me, mate, help us out.

It was a pub”, as if that were in doubt,

Language bereft of any metered flow

With words recurring, echoing like Dub

Through burned-out ganglia. The stranger’s stare

Is quizzical. “Hang on, you’ve lost me, mate.

Was this a lock-in, then, this pub they kept

You at all night?” Although Den’s barely slept

He knows the man is trying to judge his state

Of mind. “Which was it, anyway? Up where?”

“Up there. Up in the roof. I mean the pub.”

Den babbles, but the blond man nods his head.

“Up in the roof? Yeah, I’ve had that”, and then

He mentions, in the corners, little men.

Den strains to comprehend what’s just been said,

Brain washed, or at least given a good scrub.

“Yeah. Up the corners. They were reaching down.”

Seeming to understand the man takes out

Some cigarettes and offers one to Den

With calm acceptance bordering on Zen

Then lights both. Den squints. What is it about

This quarter of the unforgiving town

That brings such things? His saviour tells him how

He isn’t mad but will take time to mend;

Provides more cigarettes; offers a tip

On where to rest, suggesting a small strip

Of grass with trees at Scarletwell Street’s end,

Adding “They’ll be in blossom around now.”

With syllables become a syllabub

Den calls his benefactor a good bloke

Tags: Alan Moore Fantasy
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