14 AUGUST 1964, Page 18


My head is filled with a thick paste Heavy as porridge, the warm room Booming with sludge and the sounds of fog. Nothing can spill from my skull; But I keep feeling it overflow, I wipe it off my brow.

Who filled my mind with this muck? The polished cliffs on which I stood, Chilled by darkness, gazing for hours At the quiet sea touched by stars, - Longing to dive, are lost now, Blurred by murmurs, Scared to fall I'm more scared of the small skull, Swirling with vapours, where I sit, The lid shut tight.

No wind blows now in the warm air; No surf breaks; only the slow Splash of mud in the choked brain.