Sweeney spat flakes of monologue to an invisible foe in room 108 before he took the plunge.
A flyer of thought who'd lick round corners like a knife wind
sweep up shined steps and cyclone through the swinging doors of a red brick kip called home
trailing his underbelly aura of tramp glamour through a smell of pine fresh floor polish lining the corridors like yellow smoke in Eliot's Prufrock.
He'd wake to reality's nightmare cursing in a feral wheeze or grunt and shout about
"cunts....bastards....lazy wankers dying of cancer"
then bang the wall with his fists to start the day dissolved in tears.
He never socialised or idled with others
just the one time of a long chat he had with himself in the communal area before Oisin complained to the warden who shut him up and stuffed him back in the dressing room where he worked on the final scene.
A plasterboard box he left whistling as he stepped onstage at the shelter deep acting at 8 12 and 4 dressed in a drab bundle of black rags clutching a mug
with a look to no one and none to him.
What demonic cause sucked his life away behind the eyes and forced his lips to pucker gumward; curdle twisted words in his mouth and draw sweat onto the one shirt he ever wore and never took off?
Years of liquid cosh and ECT beat and drained Sweeney's blood bound scrap with life nuked his mind and buckled his passion on an anvil of despair
razed thought to desert where a phantom's whisp frazzled his nut to a brain baking recipe the gards scraped from a pavement and time scrubbed from the memory of other residents the day of his exit.