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Bob Henry Jan 2013
Ceaseless ****** of the future,
Weaver of possibility,
Engine of chance and
“What would it be like?”
That endured the infinite
and recitations
Of its own creation
Never knowing why -
Just falling endlessly
And into place -
Who said:
I’d like to be on high ground
When the end comes
Not for safety but
to watch a while
whilst it tears apart
And then finally
unravels when my eyes close,
The thing of things
That orchestrated the
Mutiny of the heart
In those senseless
Attics of sanity,
The cracks in the hologram,
As all of life were truly hollow
Bob Henry Sep 2012
Something died
We dug a hole at the back of the garden
Mumbled in some words
And filled the rest with dirt

My mother missed the funeral
She was ten days in bed
And made strange snarling sounds
When we tried to change the sheets.

This thing has no face
And what do you call a paper swan
Unfolded out of grace,
In its blatant two dimensions,
With its hideous crumpled skin,
When it bares neither form nor purpose?
Bob Henry Sep 2012
Your father is dead, Gimp Bailey,
We found his body all bloodied and mashed,
Wouldn't have known it was him, Gimp Bailey,
Had he not screamed your name with his dying thrash,

T'was but days ago, Gimp Bailey,
You and I walked the town in the cold
I saw the scars on your bald head turn blue,
And your leg shook right out of your hold,

The wolves hadn't touched him, Gimp Bailey,
Though we could hear their howl in the wind,
'Treated him with the respect he never showed you,
For a sinner, that *******, sure new how to sin,

When we passed the catherdral, Gimp Bailey,
You looked to the bell tower high,
And you asked me, confused, Gimp Bailey,
Why men build their towers so high,
What's so wrong with the blue of the sky?

We know it was you, Gimp Bailey,
'Cause against the blue-black of the dusk,
Saw your silhouette, Gimp Bailey,
We saw your limping husk.

You bowed your burnt head, Gimp Bailey,
As we passed by the looming bell tower,
And we both know why you did, Gimp Bailey,
For it rang out for your final hour,

His blood turned to red snow, Gimp Bailey,
Whilst our hounds were sniffing your trail,
And where did you go, Gimp Bailey?
How did you run if you are so frail?

But you weren't trying to hide, Gimp Bailey,
Because we saw that scarred blue-bald head,
From the top of the tower with the toll of the bell,
You screamed, "He is dead! He is Dead!"

Then we heard the crash, Gimp Bailey,
As the Bell fell down the stair well
Into eternity, Gimp Bailey,
It fell into the depths of hell,

And still we waited, Gimp Bailey,
With our guns, oh so ready to shoot,
We didn't know how much you hated,
That man - that beast - that brute -

And when you appeared out the doors,
We saw your hands all bloodied and bruised
From the pillars you smashed, Gimp Bailey,
From the hate of being abused,

When the roof came down, Gimp Bailey,
We didn't know what to say!
When the walls folded in, Gimp Bailey,
There was nothing to do but to pray!

I wish you had run, Gimp Bailey,
But you were a gorgoyle instead,
I called to you, Gimp Bailey,
Whilst those stones fell upon your head...

Each brick that fell, Gimp Bailey,
Was no different from your fathers back hand,
And they twisted your limbs, Gimp Bailey,
Like your leg broken by that man,

And the mortor that crashed, Gimp Bailey,
Ripped open the scars on your head,
Like the fire your father had set on your skull,
Oh Gimp Bailey, are you happy you're dead?
Bob Henry Sep 2012
Why doctor G
Do these stitches still bleed?
The wound has no depth
But a hole in the creed,

That was once the goal
Of thy shallow soul
Gushes the blood
Numbs the control.

Why doctor O
Does the grass not grow?
That once stemmed the thought
In which the seeds could be sewed,

T’was once a marvelous tree
Doctor O, doctor G.
See the death in the spark
Of the mind of the free.

Why doctor D
Is all attempt to achieve
Thoughtless finite means
In an infinite sea?

Doctor G, doctor O, doctor D
Don't you see?
The blood will not flow,
But the stitches still bleed.

Shoot the sparks through thy heart,
Doctors, count them three,
Fill my lungs with the air
Of this failed surgery

Let the meter run flat
Cease the breath, if you please,
And remove from thy corpse
The stitches in the tree

I may pray to the three
Once the coil is released
That the grass  one day grows
And the stitches not bleed.
Bob Henry Sep 2012
I read
I read anything,
Prose or poem, article or essay,
I'm so hungry for it
I wish my eyes had detachable jaws
That ate ink and binary alike.

Its not for allure of assonance and alliteration,
The collective subjective seeking the objective,
But the idea whittled, still unvarnished,
Because that is what we are and that is who I am.
Bob Henry Sep 2012
Moments, each like a drop of rain
That is the continual movement
Of the Omniverse
Forming, falling, breaking and rejoining,
Inhaled back up to the skies
And starting all over again,

Eventually, even the Gods,
Like energy into matter
Like electrons and protons and neutrons
Like atoms into molecules,
Like those bodiless strands of DNA
Floating in magnificent soups of matter,
Cloning themselves,
Like the cells they formed connecting and creating life,
Systems of energy making machines,
Like the bodies that wasted away
When their brains became their graves
Breaking away into pure information,
Finding each other
In the vast expanses of space
And reconnecting like the broken lines of a puzzle
Finally piecing together
To make the image of a single universal being…
They too shall join and make one,
For many are the plains of the multiverse
And many are the gods that stare out
Into its infinite dimensions.
Bob Henry Sep 2012
Sleep was the demon, that beat the waking mind,
I mind these hours of wasted life
To find time to waste time
I could write 'waste'
A thousands times
And still not waste my life
As sleep.
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