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.”