Beneath the odour and the clutter,
atrocities I dare not utter,
the filth, the waste, the vacant bins,
the bed, a vestibule for sin,
the walls bedecked by dog-eared posters,
the desk uninhabited by coasters,
the ceiling adorned by hanging owl,
(the sight of which brings Mother's scowl),
a room dwarfed by battlestation,
a holiday home for drugs vacation,
a resting place for tired machines,
consoles, speakers, computer screens,
a CD cache, a weedy stash,
every container filled with ash -
Beneath all this and swathes of flies,
a room, a home, an Eden lies:
a place of peace, a state of mind,
too long for Jack's Room have I pined.
