23.12.03
The genesis of this poem - he was putting brill cream in his hair and pretending to be a 1950s lounge singer, and I was challenging his intellect.
"Haematic," he said. "That's a long word."
"Bloody, right?" I replied.
"You got it, angel."
So, then this happened. It is not good, but it is strange, and all I have done for a while.
The Stone Angel
Beside my shoulder, a stone angel,
marble, haematic with veins.
At war with entropy and the slow
cooling of its
metamorphic skin;
a subcutaneous desperation,
unyielding and embittered.
I could see Atlas in its buckled knee,
in the palm pressed to the ground
and in the palm outstretched, asking.
A suggestion of the southern hemisphere
against the convex of its spine.
I could see continents encased
in its wingspan.
It is still trying to move - a Leviathan
brought to the ground (no taller now than I am.)
It died as Gilgamesh died on our lips;
as Orpheus ceased turning
and looking backwards. The magma
of our stories has cooled to marble,
and there is nothing to keep the angel moving now
but will.
��*
"Haematic," he said. "That's a long word."
"Bloody, right?" I replied.
"You got it, angel."
So, then this happened. It is not good, but it is strange, and all I have done for a while.
The Stone Angel
Beside my shoulder, a stone angel,
marble, haematic with veins.
At war with entropy and the slow
cooling of its
metamorphic skin;
a subcutaneous desperation,
unyielding and embittered.
I could see Atlas in its buckled knee,
in the palm pressed to the ground
and in the palm outstretched, asking.
A suggestion of the southern hemisphere
against the convex of its spine.
I could see continents encased
in its wingspan.
It is still trying to move - a Leviathan
brought to the ground (no taller now than I am.)
It died as Gilgamesh died on our lips;
as Orpheus ceased turning
and looking backwards. The magma
of our stories has cooled to marble,
and there is nothing to keep the angel moving now
but will.
��*
22.12.03
The genesis of this poem - he was putting brill cream in his hair and pretending to be a 1950s lounge singer, and I was challenging his intellect.
"Haematic," he said. "That's a long word."
"Bloody, right?" I replied.
"You got it, angel."
So, then this happened. It is not good, but it is strange, and all I have done for a while.
The Stone Angel
Beside my shoulder, a stone angel,
marble, haematic with veins.
At war with entropy and the slow
cooling of its
metamorphic skin;
a subcutaneous desperation,
unyielding and embittered.
I could see Atlas in its buckled knee,
in the palm pressed to the ground
and in the palm outstretched, asking.
A suggestion of the southern hemisphere
against the convex of its spine.
I could see continents encased
in its wingspan.
It is still trying to move - a Leviathan
brought to the ground (no taller now than I am.)
It died as Gilgamesh died on our lips;
as Orpheus ceased turning
and looking backwards. The magma
of our stories has cooled to marble,
and there is nothing to keep the angel moving now
but will.
"Haematic," he said. "That's a long word."
"Bloody, right?" I replied.
"You got it, angel."
So, then this happened. It is not good, but it is strange, and all I have done for a while.
The Stone Angel
Beside my shoulder, a stone angel,
marble, haematic with veins.
At war with entropy and the slow
cooling of its
metamorphic skin;
a subcutaneous desperation,
unyielding and embittered.
I could see Atlas in its buckled knee,
in the palm pressed to the ground
and in the palm outstretched, asking.
A suggestion of the southern hemisphere
against the convex of its spine.
I could see continents encased
in its wingspan.
It is still trying to move - a Leviathan
brought to the ground (no taller now than I am.)
It died as Gilgamesh died on our lips;
as Orpheus ceased turning
and looking backwards. The magma
of our stories has cooled to marble,
and there is nothing to keep the angel moving now
but will.
