Portrait of a Metal Angel

Among the dust and swirls of a Galactic afternoon
you have the stage deploy itself – until it shifts to you –
with “I have contemplated all our nights and days, been
persuaded by your listless gaze to arrange our lives
so that you might invent the impossible”;
five black holes in a dark core, burnt ice
that taps the universal spigot of this uncharted emptiness;
a place to meet and contemplate our dark intent,
the patterns on the Great Wall that measure out
the tears we’ve shed in cruel delight at these earthly mites
that trouble our dreams of eternity; oh little one
do not be sad, the darkness that surrounds you is my light,
the warm embrace of ancient Evil’s face, the broken
measure of my solitude, the quickened laughter of my hate;
for too long these insignificant apes have had their way,
but now comes the final installment plan, the singular mistake
that will explode the myth of the self-reflecting nothingness
of their pride once and for all, the bloody hoof print in the skies
I leave behind shall show them the ancient lies I gave them
long ago; and, like the bugs they are they shall dig down
deep into the earth, hide from us who seek their flesh
and bones, the mental energy of their white skulls, the hope
and dreams they fed upon so long they’ve turned into the pigs
we made of them. Do you not see what I have planned
for them, the day they discover hell is but a short step
away into the future: a simple escape from life,
a dalliance of the light – they sought in vein
so long ago in the myths of black angels unattained?

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

2 thoughts on “Portrait of a Metal Angel

  1. I wonder if this isn’t what the robots in the Matrix said before they took over the world.

    Too many robots. So depressing. My feeble little hope for humanity is slowly being squelched beneath the foot of great prophetic poetry.

    Like

    • I have to admit the figure of absolute evil has been with us probably since humans first contemplated death… is not the escape from life that Norman O. Brown and Ernest Becker in their psychological mixture of Freud and anthropology, the riches in the mud or gold, the power of the mind to shape both ethical and tragic worlds to imagine the contours of this monstrous existence that we in our limited finitude have yet to fully understand? I see a vast cosmic intelligence, one that from the beginning has been with us, the dark power that harbors so much hate… in figure only, not literally; for none of us know what is the shape of time and infinity, we imagine, that is our nature… yet, each poet takes from the great prophetic literature of all the races the elements of a universal vision, a sort of wandering meaning that seems from generation to generation in need of renewal, a reinscription of its basic motifs and leitmotifs into the current cultural matrix if you will. Without this renewal of the ancient myths we would all be so much more powerless to confront the unknown, the forces that seek to destroy us and make of us something other than what we are…

      Like

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