Hawke through the legs - Quiz

I close my eyes
And this image floats beside me:
A sweaty-toothed madman
With a stare that pounds my brain.
His hands reach out and choke me
And all the times he's mumbling,
Mumbling: Truth.
Truth like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.
Push it, stretch it -
It'll never be enough.
You kick at it, beat it -
It'll never cover any of us.
From the moment we enter crying
To the moment we leave dying
It'll just cover your face
As you whail and cry and scream.

That poem was the centrepiece of my primary occupation this evening. If you know the reference let me know and you'll be a proud recipient of 100 'Iddiols Points', the totals of which will be totted up in the event of my death, and the forerunner will be awarded the rights to my corneas. Answers on a postcard.