A Lost Art
My bloody Mary
Fallen angels do not wait for operations of justice hell being too eager with impetuous desire liquid with fire an ignitability sticky and buoyant burning with counter mechanisms intrigues and righteous skepticism. That grows and grows every feather a blue hotel a flog for the marring a phantom ship a mouldering heap - Leaps at tens e'er heaven condescends takes it to heart, but forestalls then - contraries the wary betrays disillusions defensive parries, insidious celestial my bloody Mary - Stubborn, tragic the sympathies of magic populate her heart, raises hell to a lost art.
Much depends on the fallen Angel. Having been an Angel, the fallen one knows ecstasy, leaps heavenward, but sings out of tune and ends up buoyant back in the boiling oil, the sticky liquid. Boning up on the good book is no defense against dark magic. Those who can’t wait for justice find themselves lost in art eh? That makes art a hell of a space high or low, lost or found. This has both ring and mirror, Miltonesque. It’s allegorical, of course; it is helpful to have a better understanding of how you square chronology with metaphysics and stay slippery in rhyme (very tasteful rhymes I have to say). Thank you for that conversation. It really helped. When Angel gets the celestial boot and goes looking for sacred loot trying to get back to the garden the stubborn fool keeps the cycle churning. That’s life in the big city.