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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
