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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
