Henry Rollins

by Richard Tyrone Jones

ONE DAY, Henry Rollins decided to hang himself
before decrepitude unmanned him. However,
the muscular girth of his tree-trunk neck left him pedaling air
for three hours. Before death, he had time to reflect,

concluding "Liar" had been the Rollins band's only good number,
that his role in Johnny Mnemonic had been misguided,
and cameos in Heat and Lost Highway unmemorable.
How his visits to maimed G.I.s had prolonged the war he hated,

how his muscles had formed a barrier as much as they had armour,
that perhaps he should have punched himself out of the closet,
that he'd secretly quite liked some shitty rave music,
that he didn't always have to sing like a sore-throated auctioneer

and how he really should have used a hawser.
Yet I suspected lack of oxygen had made him over-critical
and "I always found you quite affable, myself"
was what I whispered in his ears as his lips turned tattoo-blue.


Previously published in Germline.

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