On now forward, flying your wings in blue azure sky’s stream.
Angels of Prey, fluid are your wings flapping as rainwater, crying like silk.
Your quests are still, your voices a dream.
What terror your eyes make, swooping your scorn down on a
supposed heretic.
Were not the convened saints heretics in your eyes at one time or
another?
Come celebrate! Rip mortal men’s minds out to satisfy your hunger
for invasive procedure, of knowing the truth or the lies within them.
If there is an everlasting Middle Age, an Age of Ignorance, the question
for us mortals below is do we believe in saints or are we Angels of Prey?
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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Sandie