Gargoyles were placed on buildings for protection, to absorb sin and allow rainwater to pass through them, cleansing consecrated ground. I’ve been miserably reading Larkin poetry (which incidentally, I don’t find depressing or miserable at all, unlike most people I know who have read his work) which probably explains this entry. I just like the idea of our bodies being fragile temples, on which we can build a sort of gargoyle, a guardian to dull certain pains and allow water to cleanse us of memory.
It’s funny how when sitting
On a roadside in the evening
With one you half remember from a diary
The past’s granite talons scratch you
With soft fists tainted with jasmine,
Or hotel sheets from Holland, or mock-tudor icing,
You can feel stone hands grip tighter
On a heart you were sure was stronger
From a hundred days of placing small grey
Guardians on your chest,
And just one sentence leaves you helpless,
Like “you haven’t changed at all’ or worse:
“I always seemed to hurt the ones I know
That loved me best”.