Apparently, Brilburn Logue is Alan Moore.
This is for when the slats of the night slam shut on you, for when the radio is broken and crackles like uranium orchids. For when the föhn-wind rattles the telegraph wires like a handful of bones, and for when dream ambulances skitter through the streets at midnight. In the amusement arcade a sailor whose muscles writhe with tattoos and pornography, doubled up, his vomiting emeralds. Elsewhere a black man with brass teeth and a swallow skin tie is laughing and laughing and offering poisoning candy floss to the children. This is for when your cuff gets caught in the cogs of an urban evening, for when your vision is frayed and you don’t have any more lust. This is for the wasp-woman. This is for the torturers’ wives with their thumbs blue as billiard chalk. This is for all the mathematicians who got mixed up in the dream gang. This is for when you get caught in a sleep-riot, this is for when your jism turns to platinum, for when the television is full of murder, for when the sky is out of order, for when your room is crawling with cheap poetry. This is for when your veins are singing with indigo for when the radiator is full of ever. For when your sex is full of voodoo, for when your clothes are imaginary, for when your kitchen is dead. This is for when your flesh creeps and never comes back.