Antony Gormley’s Man of Iron, Standing...
Blank.
Blind to the bland, distant, grey waters...
Expressionless, motionless.
An inattentive, unemotional
Merseyside permanence...
Clinging weed flapping at lichen,
Like the torn wrappings
On the excavated, ancient, mummified elite.
It awaits a slurping tide to rise
And slash at it with venom
Then engulf its glum form,
Anchored by rusting, leprous feet...
Dismay.
Discontented on the distressed, dark, flat mud...
Barnacled, disfigured.
A moronic, horrific
Sculpted presence...
Pete Ray
The Antony Gormley parade of interesting iron
figures on and around Great Crosby’s beach,
Liverpool.
Saw them in 2013…
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