Jerusalem

At the delay, this possible to guess

Through study of his well-upholstered face

Or gist of his dyspeptic monologue.

“Fuck this. If it’s not gonna do the biz

I’m gonna smoke the other stuff.” Den stares,

Circling an endless rug between the chairs

As, barely knowing where or who he is

He wades in a dissociative fog

Alone, the lights on but nobody home,

Where looking down he finds he can’t avoid

The fact he’s now wearing the clothes and hat

Of Charlie Chaplin, somebody like that,

Some little tramp on crackling celluloid

Strutting a stage of sudden monochrome,

All colour fled. Fat Kenny, dressed like Den

In antique garb now waddles through the gloom

Beside him, white faced, black clad. They don’t talk,

Their gait resembling the Lambeth Walk

While in the upper corners of the room

Are gruff, gesticulating little men

In similar attire, homunculi

Who swear and spit. Floorboards somehow replace

The ceiling and through chinks the ruffians call

Their taunts, where dirty grey light seems to fall

As from some higher mathematic space

Or proletarian eternity

Of endless grudge. Its noisome undertow

Seizes them both. Perspective is askew,

The jeering imps made large as, by degree,

Den and his colleague rise towards them. He