The crack of fiercely hit squash balls

Woke me from my blackout so that I started

Like one woken from a deep sleep

Or like some unfortunate commuter

Rising to the call of alarm-clock Britain;

Once on my feet I steadied myself

And saw from an illuminated sign

That I had been borne to a place called

Valley, though it more resembled a ditch;

The place thundered with endless wailing

Which issued from the Sports Hall, but when I

Put my face to the glass, I discerned nothing,

For it was all steamed up with sweat;

‘It’s time to begin our descent into the

Blind world below,’ said Berrigan, his face

All pale, and I, who saw his complexion,

For even his beard could not hide it, asked

‘How will I cope, when even you’re afraid,

Who art wont to be my strength in doubt?’

And he spoke back: ‘It’s the misery of the

Fuck-ups here below which paints my face with

That pity which you mistake for fear;

Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow

Of Death, I shall fear no evil – for I am

A lot more insane than this Valley.

Now, let’s get moving, the journey is long.’

He stepped forward then, leading the way for me,

Towards our next port of call. As we advanced

Along a straight track, no wailing could be heard,

Only the sound of sighs coming from