William Blake and Alan Moore go into a bar and don’t come out

I remember hallucinatory clarity
At dusk when the branches are black and wet
Like the ink of a Chinese painting
And my face looms at others
A dangerous zombie
Paler and further away
Than the dinosaur fish
Fossiled under the sea.

Since then, as a captive pig,
Shamefully comfortable
I’ve blinded wild eyes
Tamed atonal songs
The cracking voices
On a raw record player
Scratching the Aspidistra
All the old odd things
I have packed away
and I’m sat on the box
trying to remember
what was inside.