what charm. what scandalous blasphemy.
she devolved to coarse dialect, as a studious woman does,
when she was in the uttermost ascensions of her sexual perfidia.
once, in our fierce nocturnal embrace, she snarled in my ear,
‘you are absolutely all ________, & no heart whatsoever!’
her name was Scarlet. & the poetry of her heart; it was scarlet
also. the last of lovers – won’t be satisfied till we’ve danced to
the end of love.
Beauty is a refugee in a lonely place
black swans on shimmering water
the crime of love is my solemn disgrace
tolerant tears, the tears of Eve’s daughter.
the ritual of romance is sinister in that city between oceans.
a fallen soldier tracks the dangerous alleys, the off-limits bars,
to hunt the woman with hair of cinnamon & sangria. the knife in
her bag was unobtrusive, as knives go, but the blade was sincere
enough to cut a man deep.
being a simple son of Adam, I followed her all the way to the back
of the barrens. when I woke from my drunk, I was alone. ‘cause
that was her kind.
once, I was all of passion,
and poetry was notoriously Scarlet…
(Art: Andre de Dienes)