From the first issue of the Norwich based literary magazine
Cyclops (Wild Pigeon Press 1968). Other contributors included Jeff Nuttall, Snoo Wilson and Bill Butler. There is a full page portrait of Marc by Harriet Franklin, the wife of the magazine's editor Dan Franklin.
Cyclops says of Marc: 'Sings with Tyrannosaurus Rex. First book of poems is appearing soon.' Indeed this poem appeared soon after in his
Warlock of Love. Untitled (as it is titled) is a prose poem so abstract it might turn into mist and float out to sea. It seems probable that rare and exotic herbs were consumed during its creation...Take it away Marc:
Tall as the truth the creature coughed in the clouds,
feeding on mountain tips and the rare winged eagle lords
that journeyed higher than the memory of man. Its claw, caked in mist and wishes, ripped at a pillar of fear
masoned long ago by terrible forgotten Titans, to
prevent the dreams of man from floating in the valleys
of the diamond.
Its eyes, like women and sand, shifted ever searching
for the perilous horn of plenty. A foolish colossus
it looked, ragged and unworshipped. Solitary on the
roof of the world, a remaining nightmare in a plateau
of fair thought.
It moaned and clumsily spewed spells of fear on the
storm stallions grazing in the temple of pearls. And
the years danced on. And all that moves returns to
stone, eventually.
From the first issue of the Norwich based literary magazine Cyclops (Wild Pigeon Press 1968). Other contributors included Jeff Nuttall, Snoo Wilson and Bill Butler. There is a full page portrait of Marc by Harriet Franklin, the wife of the magazine's editor Dan Franklin. Cyclops says of Marc: 'Sings with Tyrannosaurus Rex. First book of poems is appearing soon.' Indeed this poem appeared soon after in his Warlock of Love. Untitled (as it is titled) is a prose poem so abstract it might turn into mist and float out to sea. It seems probable that rare and exotic herbs were consumed during its creation...Take it away Marc:
Tall as the truth the creature coughed in the clouds,
feeding on mountain tips and the rare winged eagle lords
that journeyed higher than the memory of man. Its claw, caked in mist and wishes, ripped at a pillar of fear
masoned long ago by terrible forgotten Titans, to
prevent the dreams of man from floating in the valleys
of the diamond.
Its eyes, like women and sand, shifted ever searching
for the perilous horn of plenty. A foolish colossus
it looked, ragged and unworshipped. Solitary on the
roof of the world, a remaining nightmare in a plateau
of fair thought.
It moaned and clumsily spewed spells of fear on the
storm stallions grazing in the temple of pearls. And
the years danced on. And all that moves returns to
stone, eventually.
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