Friday, 7 June 2013

Blood poetry

Trickle drops! my blue veins leaving!
O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
Candid from me falling, drip, bleeding drops,
From wounds made to free you whence you were prison'd,
From my face, from my forehead and lips,
From my breast, from within where I was conceal'd, press forth red
drops, confession drops,
Stain every page, stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops,
Let them know your scarlet heat, let them glisten,
Saturate them with yourself all ashamed and wet,
Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops,
Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops. 

Walt Whitman

- I am ugly - said Rhiannon.
- You must be joking - I replied.
- I am either very ugly or very unlovable.
- You are neither.
- Then, why don't I inspire poetry?
- What do you mean?
- He is a poet.

As you might have learned earlier in this story, Rhiannon killed herself. She jumped off a cliff for many reasons, one of which was unrequited love but this was not any ordinary unrequited love. This was the kind that stings and hurts a million times more, with no possibility of recovery, for the simple reason that the person who rejects you is just terribly beneath you. Morrissey puts it much more eloquently than I can:

Rejection is one thing but rejection from a fool is cruel.

You are aware of the truth, you can see your loved one's inferiority but there is something that keeps you there, as though he or she had poisoned or bewitched you because in normal circumstances you would not have looked at him or her twice. There is an otherworldly element, a hex that destroys your will and drives you to a person who does not love you and does not deserve to be loved by you, or anyone for that matter. 

Rhiannon wondered many times if she was not indeed cursed or jinxed, if her substandard lover had somehow grabbed a small strand of her hair and cast a spell to drive her to despair. She could intellectually and visibly see that he was not worth it and that the girlfriends he had had in the past (and perhaps those he would have in the future) could not hold a candle to her. By the way he described them, they were not very bright whilst Rhiannon was, she was a very clever girl. 

He said he was used to dating beautiful women only so Rhiannon assumed that the problem was that she was the worst-looking of all. Little did it matter if she was loving and kind. She may have been argumentative at times, but who would not be in that situation? When your beauty, brains and kindness are wasted on someone, you are bound to show your insatisfaction. 

By curiosity, Rhiannon googled one of the girls in question and was shocked to see a buck-toothed eyesore with muscly arms and bad tattos that looked like a dodgy wrestler with a bright red wig. James called her "fluffy" though and used to write her love poems. 

I laughed. Rhiannon frowned. 

- What's so funny?
- The whole situation, Rhiannon. It is just ridiculous. I'm sorry - I replied amid hysterical bouts of laughter.
- I know. 
- But you don't know I can see her. In your mind. I can read your thoughts, and "fluffy" is there. If it's any consolation, I would not go near that in a million years - I said, as I kissed her neck. 
- Then why did he? Why did he love her and not me?  
- Because she was easy, and the sort of filthy girl in bed he wanted. It was a matter of skill, my dear. You did not have it and he did not let you prove yourself. Unfortunately this happens often, you need nothing but a voracious overexploited pussy, a small brain, a bitch's manipulative ways and an arsenal of sex toys to get men writing love poems about you, even if you look like a disfigured clown. That man was not an artist, for he was unable to see the beauty oozing from every single of your pores. He liked a good fuck, just like the next man.
- The problem is, I would not have been surprised or even hurt if he had been a man devoid of artistic inclinations. As a matter of fact, common men have made much better compliments than him, a so-called poet. He never once made me a compliment, he only said he wanted to ejaculate on me after I masturbated him or that I made him horny. The worst was when he said I was simply "nice". I hate that word. People say you're nice when they can't come up with anything else. 
- Poets are liars, my love. 
- But somehow, I wanted to be lied to. I wanted him to think I was beautiful. 
- And he did at times, but he was a fool with no self-esteem so he wanted to break yours in the process. I think you are beautiful, Rhiannon, and I will never put you down in favour of a fluffy buck-toothed beast with no class or intelligence. As Walt Whitman once said "All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain". You literally have both of those things and much more...

My fingers danced around her nipples and made their way to that precious area that guards the heart. Rhiannon smiled and leaned back. She looked relaxed, enough to let me get closer and sink my teeth in her tender flesh. 

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