Clock Poem by barry white

Father as we toured
the newly finished vicarage
i sensed it was there to
protect a sacred emptiness,
navigate the humdrum distress
of a generic flock.


I left the gift of a cogless
springless clock. After arriving
home the slumbering ecstasy of a
slavish bee wouldn't let me sleep,
i shot him down and dreamed about
electricity, earths beginnings,
mankind's sinning.

Phantasmagoria amplified the
electricity, overloading a dream.
I woke with a jolt, the honey bee
was fired back into life, his wings
patenting a new rhythmic paradigm
with gravity.

That morning vicar you phoned and
for the first time spoke authentically,
in an apocalyptic tongue. The clock i
left was bleeding and ticking backwards,
you hung up and vanished afterwards.

The clock wouldn't perform for the media
swarm, it survived a fire from an unknown
source and passed on it's strange behaviour
to the clock in the church spire which ticked
backwards and started to bleed. My friend the
honey bee and his new republic pollinated crops
and scattered their seeds.