Harry Bailey’s Electric Dream

Image
unteacher
überpreacher
lunar featured
dream creature

the Sandman stands in the middle of his time
auras drop off him like
psychotropic shells
red blue black violet red green gold
bar bar bar barb it you its
hits reason’s exiles
in the prow of their waking
they sink through black water
into the depths
where extremophilic abominations
the screaming ones
the horrors
caress their themness
pick it to pieces
and pull the shrapnel fragments
into stranger nightmares still.

As tubes slither down their throats
hearts whimper, lungs deflate
the Sandman clicks his fingers and
a hundred thousand gigawatts
stab through brittle hollows to
illuminate the trenches

the sleepers are burnt by shrieking steam
that tosses them like specks of meat
and turns them into sockets

Seventeen,
Eighteen,
Nineteen,

love science power fun
he can’t remember why he does it
but when it crackles twixt his fingers
Sandy knows he’s
God.

The Scissorman isn’t pleased
and when the

Forty-one,
Forty-two,
Forty-three,

gets so loud the dead men hear
he sends his erring apostle errant
a scalpel and a post-it-note

the Sandman snarls, the Sandman weeps,
the Sandman laughs and the Sandman sleeps.

thunder blunder crack asunder
nightlight nighttime nightshade

Eighty-three,
Eighty-four,
Eighty-five.

Meridiem

The dawn is a spiral that twists round your head
As we orbit the signal of the darkness we fled
The sunset, it scares you, but the tick of the clocks
Is just the sound of dice falling round a cat in a box
I whispered with vipers in the depths of the pit
But I climbed my way out and I scraped off the shit
Now Christ was a mad man, a good man as well
Who proved there’s no heaven when he didn’t save hell
And Judas, forgiven, stands there by the green
He spent all his pieces on a new tambourine
In a glass darkly I fashioned a key
To find my way back to where I want to be

But the hippies drive Hummers, the comrades have fled,
The Bodhi tree’s burning, the poets are dead
And as old Jepthah’s daughter and Abraham’s son
Are trying to hold hands ‘neath the mad Gaza guns
The leftover children are studded with flies
Who tiptoe and sip at the pools of their eyes
While we, in the tower, just slumber and scoff
Like paranoid piglets at a platinum trough
Now don’t roll your snake eyes, my reptiles, my friends
The dice will keep raining when the cat’s wailing ends
Our dead skins are peeling, the oceans are stirred
The noon is a silence that waits for your word

The Door Flew Open, In He Ran

scissorman

Scissorman comes cuts brain into hot bits
chops all the noumena
stops all the double-slits
dices the dice and slices the strings
that tie will to thought
and reason to world-things

caught me again
trying to flee
treadmill mills dread
creeping softly
SPOTLIGHT EYES ON A WHITE SEDAN
god-beard fraud Freud
joyless android
here he comes to take you down
hear Shame and Guilt his skinless hounds

dapper razer
red-legg’d runner
Soviet censor
turret gunner
rule of thumb
scalpel chase
keeps you in your time and place

Trigger

Loving God will save the souls
of tiny bodies rent with holes
so for these daughters, for these sons,
don’t let the devil take our guns.
Man’s born free, for what it’s with worth,
with bullets in the afterbirth.
It is his liberty from hence
to carry arms in self defense,
then punish murderers and thieves
until their bodies drop like leaves
and those who try to take these rights,
the Moslems, whores and sodomites,
shall find God’s judgement on their head
once they’re peppered black with lead.

Papercuts

Well there ain’t no knives on the ides of July,
just four months rust and an ancient sky
and a kid on the television asking my why
I’m writing letters to no-one.

The kids kick lambs, the lambs bite back
in a wireless pen on a circular track,
but yesterday’s post is tomorrow’s rack;
they’re writing letters to no-one.

There are ears in the walls and eyes on the ceiling,
the head don’t know what the heart is feeling
and the dead hand bleeds while it fidgets, stealing
all our letters to no-one.

While bumblebees soar on Kalishnakov wings
over-men clutch at their broken things
they got honey and money and Guantanimo stings
and lots of letters to no-one.

When the sunny-side up sky of electric blue
comes down on this pyramid hominid zoo
the seas will boil but we won’t know what to do
but write letters to no-one.

Well winter come, and winter goes,
the chill remains, but no-one knows
where the kid on the television or Saint Paul stows
all their letters.

Judith

THE MAID

Crab hands
silver rite
twice-felt double dusk
shackle-footed desert moth
wait beneath the sickle moon
sickle circle – white light
watch the other other pray
wait
wait
wait
curtains.

HOLOFERNES

Turgid trumpets
crashing symbols
bring bright the rising way
bedecked in reflection
fate blest by seedlings of giants
of seething Great Ones
Great One,
I will rise like the morning
I will
Will runs through veins
vain will, all will, it will conquer
fatal clause
the thaw
treacherous potential
She sidles willow hips and smiles
KEEP DREAMING she whisper-licks
everybody is dirt
you will you will
the conquered dirt
None could fall from this high valley
let her in
(distance drags twixt boot and brain)
let her in
I will not lose my

head.

 

 

 

Judith_Beheading_Holofernes_by_Caravaggio