by Crysse Morrison (in response to Tom Lomax’s exhibition: A Week of Angels at Rook Lane in October 2011)
Jacob meet the Angel
I didn’t know what to expect – well, would you?
An angel descending suddenly, heavily,
wings like tombstones, dishevelled hair, staring eyes.
A gargoyle on acid he looked, this heavenly apparition.
He swung like a wrecking ball towards me, clung to me, clouting my thigh. I almost fell, and he held me, his stony arms grasping, his huge legs buckled under me.
I should have felt pain, but I didn’t. I felt sustained.
It was what I had always wanted. Maimed, and claimed.