coffined up in the corner room
door closed, I once read Behan
candle light, brown walls
and old books, cigarettes
my priceless replaceable
things, I indulged my self
cocooned in my nocturnal
habitual circumstances,
I sat at the desk
droopy-eyed over photographs
collapsing in nostalgia —
sweating music, music, music
until the speakers blew, ash covered
the periods of manic scribbling
so many songs poured
and I got so lost
that I felt comfortable
and now that I’m gone, off the road
back to civility, social outgoings
I try to stretch and speak
but only murmur to friends
and drink my head off
trying to gain my senses back
like a vagrant bird de-clipped
for the first time in ages
unable to even
get back in its conifer.
