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There once was a young sculptor from Crete named Pygmalion who hated women. He decided never to marry and that he was happy enough sculpting. Oddly enough, the statue he worked hardest on was an image of a woman. It was unbelieveably real, so much so it seemed like a real woman frozen for a moment in time. For even odder reasons, Pygmalion fell in love with his statue. He kissed it, brought it gifts, everything (this is one sad little man). Eventually he realized how absurd this was (he had gotten to the point of sleeping with his statue....well, lets not get into that) and stopped, becoming extremely depressed.

Now Venus had been watching him, and had taken an interest in the poor sap's love problem. Every year Crete had a big religious ceremony for her, as Venus had first emerged from the sea off the shores of Crete. At this ceremony Pygmalion prayed that he could have a woman like his statue. Venus decided to grant his wish. When he returned home and kissed his statue, he felt her stone body soften to flesh. To his surprise, Venus had transformed his statue into a real woman! She took the name Galatea and the two were married with Venus's blessings.

Pygmalion and Galatea

Back in the day when I would look into your eyes
And see shades of white and light unfurling off of Apollo’s dewy wings
I fancied you Pygmalion,
And I Galatea,
A man of taut flesh, a woman of cold steel.
Seen, but not heard.
But Texas ain’t no Mount Olympus,
My skin is too rosy to be forged by man.
Five years ago you threw down your chisel and sighed,
A completed work can only fade away to sweet oblivion.
I hope when they look at me
They will see how your hands slowly traced and redressed the pattern of iron curves,
Lips smothered hard hips and perky breasts
Eyes burned into the atoms of my very being.
I hope somehow they will see me nod in patient understanding
When I share with them the lament of domestication,
Feet that have traced the graceful calligraphy of one million years and zero smiles.
Oh Pygmalion, will they ever remember me, the coalescion of stone and eroticism?
Can the woman immortal ever be heard?

This poem is my work.

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