I never thought I’d use the word, viscous, to describe poetry. But when it comes to The Moon’s Jaw by Rauan Klassnik, it’s not just dripping in the diction of desire, but a lusty mix of violence and the macabre, a prose that vomits lyricism. Klassnik rips apart scenes with each line, every construction challenging the linearity of sequence. Take for example:
“A bridge, young as a Barbie, holds on to an opened watermelon. Like a bee-Its gold wings shuddering. A man & a woman climb out of a car-& come, bristling, towards me. Like a machete. Or a cake knife. Orderly, & jagged. Soothingly. Vicious & raw. I have learned to die. & not to. I am filled w/ silk.”
The contrasts are manifold, the eccentric knife cuts of violent love slashing its way out of snug comfort. I feel volatile bursts in the chemistry of Klassnik’s The Moon’s Jaw, bites clamping onto my skin and ripping flesh out:
“The stars glimmer like small blurred-red flowers-& lying next to you, she presses a talon against her clitoris…Swollen like fire…& rips up… Thru her navel. Chest. Neck. Teeth-Clenched.”
As a reflection, an inverted twist on poetry, Klassnik shines. Just don’t expect a whole lot of sunlight.