Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No Angel, No Demon
She’s writing poetry, naked, wet--
as though just born, but the truth:
she's fresh from the shower, clean
rivulets dripping, wickedly slow.
Inspiration takes many forms,
yet this one is my favorite.
She stands the empty field, alone;
terrible, swift sword in hand,
waiting for the next challenger
from deep within or without,
demons in the shadows and lines,
she, an angel with a blade of fire.
Nothing yet poisons the water
dripping from her hair, winding
rolling down pale arms, breasts;
she looks at me and I know, I know
time's numbered hours are short,
the angel glancing over her shoulder
at me, alone, as the last word falls.
The only thing to do, she tells me
is to turn out the glare of the light
for I am no angel, she knows this
by hell's heart; I can only listen--
seductive night falls down onto us.
Above: said battle of light and dark, to the victor goes the souls. By a very good friend of mine. Below: Centaurus A, a galaxy that only seems to know catastrophe, as it is one hell of a radio source, though a bit dead on the x-ray spectrum. I just like the darkness and light. It was once believed to be a galactic collision in progress, but now the dark band just seems to be some of that mysterious "dark matter" that astronomers swear by their holy theorems must be out there, but can't really prove it outside of an ungodly equation.