(in Czech, hon means ‘hunt, chase’; in Faroese, it means ‘she’)
‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been beautiful.’
she speaks a mundane line that becomes lyrical, then she sleeps.
I engrave it in my sordid tales, that are far, far from poetry. yet in
my criminal perversions, I call them love poems.
we chase the bitter account of unwritten verse as we chase love.
outside her window, the storm fulminates. she reasons that her
uncaptured poem must be hidden in the stars, beyond the mighty
thunder & the noble lightning.
I’ve hunted beauty on dark nights, & came upon dragons &
windmills. the word itself must be lost in archaic ruins. all the
beautiful things have been stolen by the poets, & we go there
to get drunk in their galleries.
so when she brands herself not beautiful, I consider it. the way her
hair hangs in loose curls, a depraved wilderness. the white nighty
thing she wears to bed, as it slips off her shoulder & exposes her skin,
& the dew on her skin. the arrogant pout on her lips, the watered
steel of her eyes that say, ‘if you’re a man, then take me.’
and I would take her that way, in the fierce grip of my hands that
gives credence to my desperation, lay her down & lay upon her
barbarically, as the storm puts itself upon the soil. because I don’t
make love to beauty.
the miles metaphor to raindrops;
the raindrops shatter on the window.
if there is any poetry at all,
it’s in the rain…
(Art: Vladimir Brunton)