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époque press
pronounced: /epƏk/
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Rob Hennebry
Poetry & Spoken Word

All Sold Out

I can’t sleep

I’m listening to the Kings.

I’m not drunk or high

I’m tired

So tired

I’m exhausted




Is it all in my head?

Nobody is here to prove

Or disprove it.

Deliriousness is unpleasant

Paranoia is worse.

I have been worse,

Written better verse

Been full of happy song

Had hundreds sing along

Got the words wrong

But they got me.

Felt me, Felt it

Prayed together,


To be concealed

Or conceived again

All over again by flow of pen

And then


Back from whence

And hence


New to the Groove

Indifferent to worlds

And people and things

And tunes,

Just us,

In those rooms

Where ceilings caved

And notions were sprayed

On walls and minds alike.


To dislike or adore

The audience,

My whore

On whom I frequently

Vent spent trenches of thoughts

Nothing more.

I inspect their loyalty

To the willingness to let go.

Witness the cremation

The devastation of

Ideas that took centuries of compromise

To compile.


But now only the bar stool philosophers

I entertain.


Such Vitriol

I have for it all

For them all

For every stutter and stall

Assumed unnoticed by me



Expect me to believe

You believe I believe you?

I wish I couldn’t fucking see you!

And retire to my quarters

Slaughter a double

Cheesy aroma

Self induced coma

Thank god for that.

At least thank fucking god

For that.


That all of that

This that and the other

(flutter words

Again and again

Again and again

Again and again)

Until when?


When I’m happy.


Ginsbourgh watched

The greatest minds dwindle

I watch the lowest fiddle

With simplicity

Aspiring to mediocrity.


Far out of reach

Even in the highest girders

Of these circles

Of these escapees

Fugitives of the ability to read.

Pity, pity

I’m sold out of pity,

Its not pretty

But I gave it all

In this city

I’m all out of witty

Comforting but shitty

Remarks of nitty gritty

Detailed pity.

Apologies are cheap to this foe.

My words are arrogant

Bias, egotistical, patronising

And widely unknown,


This is just a poem.


Come sit with me

And see where it leads

I plead you

Feed the need to

Go beyond a greater good

For a greater laugh

Because it is so funny

To fill two hundred fools

With booze and

Mop their piss and puke and

Throw back truth

At their wild primate like

Swings at fact

In fact, they have no clue.

Oh Danny!

Where are you?

Ill save you a stool,

And Pilon and Pablo too

Fuck it,

Bring the whole crew

Bring the truth

The break neck speed analysis,

That I could feed these men Molasses

And the gasses

Would be misconstrued

For a smell in the loo

But there are few I would kill.

They did not choose this.

I hope they did not choose this.

My god,

What if they chose this.

How bad was it before?

How lost?

If this is what you came for!

Nothing more,

Than Door, Floor, cheap score

Cheap everything I’m sure.

I’m not sure

I am tired though

So I Lock and load

Listen to London snore

The traffic I abhor.


How dare I be allowed

To write such things

Of the folks who pay for

And push my pen?

But if I was them,

If I knew the middle name

Of any barman in town,

I would think again!


Writers Tears

Some liquid I found in a shed,

It’s been there for years, it’s a writer’s tears.


He needed more room in his head,

He’d filled it with fears when he opened his ears


That set him weeping and down it squirrelled,

Black like ink, full like blood


He shut the door behind him,

It’s been there for years, the jar of jeers


Pages and pages of the writers’ tears.


Is it only we that need?

The world that must turn,

The sun that must set

And yet needs must, but there seems

To be a knowing in a need

And the indifferent universe must lust for chaos

All things considered

Some fuckers headlights

          Lit up the air tonight

The space between was thick

         With grit


My ears stung like the rest of me was numb

And then he was gone.


Another came along.

I bowed my head to this one


What is it we know,

That we have not learned


As I age the edges fade

And I can’t close my hands as fast as the sands

Slipping through the gaps in my fingers


Time and life and things

Are just like a fistful of water.

Possibility and nothingness walk the same line.


Syrup in a sink,

Disappearing slow enough to let you think

That there’s still time

Short but sweet

Sometimes it’s an awful fear

And others I put down to anxiety.

Sometimes it’s near,

But you travel often.

Most times I’m torn,

Because I get stuck for what to say.

But every now and then...

I love you.


There’s something different about you,

Something new.

There’s a timing in the way you speak.

It’s leaked,

From a script I already knew.

I’ve dreamed of this.

Or is it DeJa’Vu ?

But everything is right. Fine.

I touch your hair one last time

And fall asleep.


If my eyes can glow with enthusiasm

For all the possibility and potential in the world

Then everywhere I look

There will be light.

All Sold OutRob Hennerby
00:00 / 02:53

Rob Hennebry is a poet and musician and has been for more than 30 years. Starting off from a musical background his poetry was very much directed in the lyric form as something to sing with early songs. Slowly this format eroded, and the more loquacious, beat style emerged that simply stopped fitting with the music. Rob has been inspired by Samuel Beckett, however the musical, rhythmic format remains the dominant mode in his writing.


A collection of Rob’s poetry, called 'Women, Religion and the Sky' is due to be published this year.


Of the poem, All Sold Out, featured here, Rob states:


‘All Sold Out is written from the perspective of a barman who feels himself above the people and place that he serves, yet he doesn’t see the irony that he is there in this same place with all of them. It is drawn from those moments of thrashing inside our own minds when we tend to think we deserve better. Often, it’s easier to lash out than do something proactive. Afterall, that could fail and where would our egos be then?’

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