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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 74 | volume XIII | September-October, 2010



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 74September-October, 2010
Prose

Say Goodbye to Poetry

(extract)


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p. 1
Ivan Kolenič

She told me she loved me as a verse-creating object, as something with an enormous shaggy tail, something absurdly spectacular and at the same time hopelessly primitive, old-fashioned, prehistoric; I love you as a most magnificently versifying object, Klárika would murmur through kiss-curved lips before everyone had fallen asleep and let nothingness alight upon the earth, till then unended, I love you as an object of poetry, as a swarm of animate corpuscles, as a race of irredeemable tramps …, while all were not yet sleeping Klárika was in her element, she raved into the blue sky like a crossed-out conscience, she spat out her ice-cream over bastards and roared laughing, she did handstands and cartwheels, she stripped off her T-shirt in the public squares, ripping the hearts out of old men, she was splendid and beautiful, she would dream with open eyes of inaugurating the reign of folly, then immediately fall into gloom and vicious cursing – the chaff to death, the cornucopia for life! She wanted to try out everything that’s been said about poetic madness, she wanted to be like a poet, like his celebrated bowel, long and sparkling, she craved to drink herself dumb and deranged, as only poets do when they’re in form and don’t know the meaning of stop, she craved to make poetry with me, to let drip from her tongue the slaver of verses and questionnaires, the self-interrogation that means unbounded misery; she was resolved to fantasise, to call upon the light, radiance, marvels, the foreign legion of solitariness, she wanted everything, a shock, a kiss, a blown-up condom that goes bzz when you let it go, she wanted everything, everything, she made love with me to exhaustion, to the last drop of sweat and blood – everywhere, anywhere, always and anyhow, in all the positions, above, below, tenderly, brutally as a monster, or fragile as a mollusc, oh come on, come, poet of mine, I adore your clumsiness, your smell, come bite the maybugs off my nipples, I’m all on fire and I want it very very much, give me him here, that upright ostrogoth, with his jerks and his rattles! Watered with lorryloads of champagne, she would show me her breasts browned by the May sun, flinging them up at me to unhinge and inflame me on a railway platform, in government buildings, in a cage at the Zoo, she






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