The poem
That day i finished A small piece For an obscure magazine I popped it in the box
And such a starry elation Came over me That I got whistled at in the street For the first time in a long time.
I was dirty and roughly dressed And had circles under my eyes And far far from flirtation But so full of completion Of a deed duly done An act of consummation That the freedom and force it engendered Shone and spun Out of my old raincoat.
It must have looked like love Or a fabulous free holiday To the young men sauntering Down Berwick Street. I still think this is most mysterious For while I was writing it It was gritty it felt like self-abuse Constipation, desperately unsocial. But done done done Everything in the world Flowed back Like a huge bonus.