Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Daniel Y. Harris & Rupert M. Loydell, Excerpts from THE RETURN OF DOOM-HEADED THREE

Doom-Headed Three, image by Daniel Y. Harris

Excerpts from 
Daniel Y. Harris & Rupert M. Loydell

It was neither Colonel Marsupial Baltrice, Mr. Marlap
nor Mrs. Merlot who stood over the dead body, broken
with glass and broken with mind. It was Jimmy Æthelstan,
thug king of the bottom two, waxing Mercian in the hood.
We heard the news from the panoptical priestess’ tweet.
#Yo J-Ecgwynn. He dead. The high school in the vinyl
town, near the Velcro border of the M-Mini-Supermarkup,
held a séance. Horror hit the latest. Went missing. Pin up.
Brunanbruth spun the beats. We’re gonna party like its 937.
They protest the Annals of Clonmacnoise. Less this race.
Is Penrith in South City? Only on Thursdays. The rest
of the week, no-fly-zones. Call this book The Skirmish
of Point Blank. There is a new voice but it’s very hard
to find through the confessional, media pricking pomp.
Make It New, Olaf. Where Ezra failed in Anglo-Saxon.
That hoary-haired warrior, bereft in the fray of the police.
Take it off the page. Slaughter ever surpass these words.
Pound it. Pound it. Pound it. Pound it. Pound it. Pound it.
It’s a golf course today. Bones of a nine iron. A staccato
for our soundscape to par. A handicap for a battlefield.
Three strokes to the trans-pennine. The brambled never
made any sense, even now where she sprained her ankle.
They can’t just glad. This octave. Tremolo. Happy sharp.
Bottoms up to Symeon of Durham, now a hack caddie
angry that Bill Murray doesn’t know of him in his time.
The greatest actor forcing all constituent parts to side in.
Our freeman status is a translated body ride to the arrest.
No tomb. A hung jury. Too much bad news bad to rate.
Only the confessor survives. Sooth Malmesbury burials.
Nothing augments Egil’s Saga, even if you’ve not heard
of him. Nobody has, like Passenger 57, lost on Netflix.
#Yo J-Ecgwynn say the near death experience too near.
Maybe her last night. Nobody see Vin Moor. In annals.
No one breathe. No one the noble stone. No one Geoffrey.
Cause all I ever have, redemption songs. A crown. First
time instead of a helmet. Thorns. Halos. Shawls of heresy.
The new ordo was influenced by the two penny ambients.
No archbishop of narration will decree a triumphalist end
to addiction’s need to create character’s in lieu of a true
self. As many as none are empty. These new voices, but.
Jimmy Æthelstan has no role. He exists only in our name.
When love dies. Accordingly. Prevails. Some are misborn.
Tropes are now everything at the head of the list of laity.
Absolutely nothing to do with preludes nor with raw 1805
beating against clocks. A generation lost in space. Youtubed.
They have no childhoods says the Cliché Counter. Pugged. 
God save the Queen’s hagiography. Jimmy Æthelstan mourns
the invasion and calls upon recruits to Pay It Forward. Many
have been made redundant and blame the Saxons. Red states.
Once we get to the Synoptic Gospels, there’s no turning back.
Free to independence and co-dependent. Only rabbinical mass
of the weight of Akiba can stable the brow. Out of left field,
Samson’s hair greys finally out of puberty. These Nazirites
and their Delilahville squint to focus more under a buck fast
food. Tolerance. Some die in Canterbury in 926. Some die
surrounded by no-weather in the Place of Oranges. Family.
They reign supreme. The last days must live beyond when.
Frankpledge, the frith-borh parody, is someone to describe
us when others won’t. Can’t resolve by easy instability. No.
This final Shut Out Night. Don’t squander The Surety Oath.
No one can hold it. Not even retort, nor literally peace-pledge
to aid the effort. Did Jimmy Æthelstan discuss his father? His
father died recently and left him nothing but many Court Leet.
We leave you to it and can’t continue. It’s killing us. Please read.
We know we can’t. Peripheral. The sick come up and bugger out.


The elephant is not in the room,
it is in the pool behind the cathedral
or marching down the high street
in black and white on a postcard.

The thing you fear the most
cannot be named but is always here,
unspoken in conversation,
mentioned in asides and footnotes.

The band we loved the most
split up and never reformed,
their music unheard for years
has never been re-released.

The three-headed monster
guards the doors to the past,
is outside the future’s portals,
can never ever be tamed.

The elephant is a rogue
who seems to live forever.
He has become part of history;
be glad you don’t live next door.

We don’t teach or learn in straight lines
We don’t understand analogies
or recognise unusual correspondences,
can’t conceptualize the anthropocosmos.

With arms outstretched we author
internal coherence and desire,
imagine reconciliation and mourn
the death of metaphysical unity.

The flowers give honey to the bee,
the bee stings predators that come
too close; when we are stung
we ache and swear and wait

for the pain to go, having built up
traces of immunity, memories
of processes along with ideas
for beeswax sculptures

we might build in the future,
when we can function as artists,
make use of heavy softness
and brute intervention.

The artist is alchemical,
the teacher a poet of realities
greater than herself. History
echoes on through time as time

expands and contracts. We live
with dreams of restoration
and rejoicing, beyond
the melancholia of angels.

I wave adieu
to Colonel Marsupial Baltrice
before the Missa
pro defunctis. Me, in death and mourning,
first entrance antiphon: accusative.
I scatter ash among muck
in the introit to appease the Patri.
No respite for this infidel. No stint in gunpowder
and lipstick. No requiem aeternam dona eis, domine.

I remain in use, audible, but hidden in italics.
            The haunt encroaches. Bacteria. Incense.
                        Flip-flops. Agnus Dei. To whom do I owe
the pleasure? It is I, the redeemer minus one. Who died?
There is no Gloria in excelsis Deo. No one. I trust you, completely.
I give myself to eternal life and panic disorder.  

We will be resurrected on a Tuesday and will flaunt
the Greek parastas
and the Slavonic opеlо.
            How can the normal be found in this death of a march?
Sack a saint and watch him deflate. No walking. The Never-Die cheer:
                        our skin-worms destroy,
                        our skin-worms destroy,
                        our skin-worms destroy the fleeth and more stay.

Where are the Seek-Succour’s? High heaven
distills twelve laborers
with sets of chops. Suffer
us not in brute fancy. The dead will die in the Lord
of Rude Conceit. Save me from the wicked stilt. Save us
from these wicked stilts holding up the eyes. Crutches. They don’t remember
the earliest surviving polyphonic setting. Call the fauxbourdon
                                    to contrast. We’ll appeal but don’t call us archaic.

A Trend-Setter objects. No surprise. Have we arranged
the reliquaries? Not likely,
nor have we performed an a cappella.
This is serious. No omissions. No resolve nor dirge for Colonel
Baltrice. The bandit is dead. This is his oratorio of persuasion.
It’s non-flammable.

Frankly, I’m relieved and listen to October crickets crack
silence with their broken rhythms.
I hate nature. I’m unnatural. If only the salvator mundi would throw me a bone,
but I twitch with a luz bone instead of a spine. No throw
is forthcoming. If I could only sleep.
We sleep in jest: this Month’s Mind. Life-Cliché speaks: die already. The people
are board and resent having to work this hard. Your point? It’s pixilated
with critical acclaim. The real new: step less on the pattern. I won’t cut
my hair. I won’t breathe as much. I’ll drink less water, riding
a ghost bike through its Dries Irae. The triptych locks
now that we are close. Very close. I’m scared. No joke,
Sardonic-Empire, close. Have a mummification. Toast,
and spare no remorse for suffering.
Suffer the angelicum and rip the rib: this day
of judgment: this farce of selfhooded-we-in-one thwart.  
Happy the children who inherit.
Happy bliss.
The encore.
Pack a camera.
We’re exciting. Tuba mirum
spargens sonum. Are you on board?

This caper. These accomplices.
A random malapropism,
say as Officer Dogsbody,
but I translate you for brain.
Why be obtuse when you can be abstruse?
A tidy sum, wouldn’t you agree?
No, we’re after pure liberation
with a tad of libertine. That’s why we demure
to Mr. Probity. It takes two: double and alias,
shadow and avatar, to cast the perfect
artificial anthropoid. It’s blind mockery,
that deference to William Archibald
Spooner with terruffic striggles.
We’ll refrain from those annoying
morphemes. Was that belly
jean pepped in stew? Simply
due to the smell of sulphur? Never
mind, I’ll smell it with me pint,
hypodeemic nerdle and concede
it’s dangerous, and we’re frivolous
with dizzy beans of the apocalypse. 

“Mountains house the gods,
caves are entrances to the underworld,
sacred rivers wash away sins
and ferry crossings are places of transition”,
says Philip Marsden in his new book,
which is clearer than your twisted gospel
and bunch of random facts.

But Professor Marlap is more inclined
towards a hell on earth, a system
that condemns us all to life eternal.
And as for Pozzo? I prefer pizza:
margaritas with some olives on top.
Pozzibly one of the worst jokes
in this arcane delusion of a text.

Scared or sacred? Both if the nephilim
are roused. Angels on the earth?
Something’s amiss, there’s prophecy
and trouble afoot; things interfered with
and misdirected. Crossed wires,
misunderstandings and misery.
Theological knots and contortions

that will take centuries of torture
and war to forget. My sacred river’s
mostly a mudflat, the cave I found
a dead end full of high tide debris.
I refuse to pay the ferry charge,
prefer to drive the long way round.
How did we get there from here?

In the global republic we count for nothing,
are a footnote in a chronicle of soldiering
and musical asides. Ley lines spread
from everywhere and anywhere else
to meet where we currently are.

Some wear leather, some prefer lace,
others are anonymous in city clothes
or outfits for a hard day’s work.
Nothing but the venue has changed,
although it is tempting to despair.

Cosmopolitan desire drives us
to distant countries and other ways
of thinking. Panic disorder is a state
of mind, a Kantian transposition
of power, silence and emotion,

but also something reassuring
because it’s always there.
I have an inability to choose,
a desire for chaos and chance.
Each poet founds his own club

and this is mine, this my creed:
If you don’t then it isn’t, if you
disagree then you are wrong,
and things once said cannot be

taken back. If we are in the wrong
city then let us perform impromptu
in the street. I have the metabolism
of a hyperactive sloth, the constitution
of the colonel, a sixth sense about it all.

Monday, September 11, 2017

Bas de Gids, Distortionism 8

Distortionism 8, Bas de Gids

Friday, September 8, 2017

Jonathan Mulcahy-King's Transdimensionalism: An interview with the brothers De Gids

Untitled, image by Bas de Gids

Transdimensionalism: An interview with the brothers De Gids
 Jonathan Mulcahy-King Interviews Aad de Gids & Bas de Gids  

JMK. What was the first piece of experimental writing that influenced your current trajectory and how can it be seen in your work today?

BdG. Perhaps that would be Gertrude Stein’s “the Making of Americans” and the de Sades books which led all to look at (the loss of) narrative, radicality of topic and totally outrageousness of unconventionalism to be embraced by as well Bass imaginist skills (he liked Bacon the painter and Hieronymus Bosch and Céline and Malcolm Lowry the writers plus early on we embraced radical performance artists like Ulay and Abramovic and Gilbert & George and all sorts of anti-music like Eno, Fripp, Ono, Kraftwerk, John Cage, CBGBs punk outings and Laurie Anderson). 

JMK. If your collective work were a music festival, what would the line-up be and why?

AdG. Involuntarily I already summed up the answer in the previous one. we searched always for the weird, dadaist, postneodadaist, situationist ad hoc performances for alienation never for enlargment of understanding, camp (Bas is straight I am gay were twins and we love shock and awe) but each weirdification is enhancement of the domain of references (or rather referencelessness)… genesis p. orridge and lady jay.

BdG. Painters: Malcolm Morley, die Neue Wilde, photographing without lens, exhibiting photos in darkness, utter darkness. Music: Nick Cave, John Lee Hooker, Dr. John the Nighttripper, Buttholesurfers. Me also and: especially Yoko Ono, Robert Wyatt, Soft Machine and no to Pink Floyd, Syd Barrett, Nina Simone, Roberta Flack, Dionne Warwick. Fashion: trashionista fashion Versace, but also haute couture by Chanel by Karl Lagerfeld. I always loved Geoffrey Beenes confections and lately becoming more and more of a parfumista.

JMK. How would you describe the relationship between your respective works of writing and photography, is it, for example, reflexive, ekphrastic, asemic, totally isolated etc.?

BdG. It is Bas who coined the notion of “transdimensionalism” which expresses pretty much the overall scope of our works. consistency one would to have hard to search for. We like to switch styles every 5 minutes and corrupt our own esthetics also so there is rather a “relax it is only a crap Reena Spartings show” NY-Dutch-global anti-estheticism in the works.

JMK. Aad, your work evokes a kind of hyper-eroticism. Do you feel there are unexplored aspects of transgression in poetry, and how much stock do you as a writer put in “Batailles holy trinity;” excess, taboo, death, and how does this come through in your work?

AdG. I studied philosophy at university and always found the more radical versions, persons of post-Bataillism more interesting as Foucault, Baudrillard, Lyotard, Derrida, Deleuze-Guattari, Virilio, Luce Irigaray, Claire Parnet, Hélène Cixous. So this implies rather a more unsystemic rest of totally transgressive, transportational, domainless non-place where all takes place in constant dynamics against itself. This is also the case in Bass imaginist ‘works’ which he keeps corrumpating, developing, undeveloping, furthering, darkening and undefining.

JMK. How would you describe the current state of experimental poetry? Could you name some writers/ publishers that excite you/ trends you find turgid?

AdG.  I am interested in some of my Facebook friend’s poetry and do not follow established writers (anymore). Carolyn Srygly-Moore, Jacques Andervilliers, Thamyris Jones, Ryan Ralston, Michael McAloran, David McLean, Lisa Gordon, Tara Birch to name a few.

JMK. Would you agree that the propensity to extrapolate meaning and map discourse in experimental poetry is an extension of Wittgensteinian language games, or the rule- governed character of analysis and our auto-effective desire for meaning, and how might this relate to your work? How might we better discuss “meaninglessness” in poetry? 

AdG. In the discourse of meaning in philosophy I rather followed (as also but not predominantly Wittgenstein) the Frankfurt Schule and poststructuralists as named above and as writers Marguerite Duras, Gertrude Stein, Kapielski, Cioran, Céline, Celan, Musil, Thomas Bernhard, Georges Pérec, Kathy Acker, Germaine Greer, all the philosophers I mentioned plus those of the Frankfurt Schule Adorno-Horkheimer-Benjamin-Marcuse-Habermas-Apel. For each time I search for the radicalest of escaping the narrativity and consistency in meaning. I love all distortionism and hybridizations in art as we see in Beuys, the photography of Helmut Newton-Guy Bourdin-Chris von Wangenheim and Cindy Sherman-Nan Goldin-Diane Arbus- Tracey Moffatt-Tracey Ermin-Stacey Kranitz we see in Andy Warhol-Madonna-Dash Snow-Gary Winogrand-Michele Sibilonis-Bertiglio. There is also the [non-movement] of 'oh this shoppinglist found under a shoppingcart at the parkinglot is poetry also esthetics to blow up the self-aggrandizing schools of whatever art.

JMK. My next question is in poetry form;

tails are diaries reeking
encrusted in the shit we
feed ourselves and to
flourish at a cost is
to tarry in mux and


mux=ground=humus=plantrests=tar=shit=hubris=debris. it is as well abject as unabject bc just is as is. people shy away from it and think themselves couture, wallstreet, raja and ISIS bombbelter with her his death expecting virgins in the heaven. “I wanna be your dog” says the same: dogs, hyenas, cats and bears do not shy away from ground, shit, the pit, their tail speaks in voluminous and swaying iconology. I hope the toddler with vulvaic hair KimJongUn soon dies a horrific death.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Joey Madia Reviews Sarah Cave's & Rupert M. Loydell's Impossible Songs

The book cover image is a study of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation.

Sarah Cave & Rupert M. Loydell
(Cornwall, UK: Analogue Flashback Books, 2017).

Review by Joey Madia

Several months ago I reviewed Rupert M. Loydell’s twentieth collection of poetry, Dear Mary, which is a series of (far-ranging) meditations on the Virgin Mary and the circumstances of her miraculous conception. This follow-up, co-authored with Sarah Cave, is a series of “21 Annunciations,” using the same source-event, but presented in wholly different ways.

There is no indication of which poems are penned by which poet, or if they are all collaborations. This is interesting to me, because I recently reviewed another book of poetry, Blue, by Wesley St. Jo and Remé Grefalda that did not indicate which poet contributed where.

The annunciations in Impossible Songs are refracted through a wide array of prisms. “A Polar Bear Annunciation of Self” is a first-person poem from the polar bear’s point of view, interdicted with narrative from Barry Lopez, the environmental/humanitarian writer. This poem is followed by another with an Arctic theme. In the third stanza I was struck by an echo from the poem “Bright Flags” by Jim Morrison, wherein he says “There’s a belief by the/Children of Man which states/all will be well.” In the Cave/Loydell poem “Shadow Words,” the line is “she convinces herself/all will be will be well.” This would seem reviewer-centric if it were not for a poem several pages later, “The Impossible Song,” which quotes Morrison in its epigraph and then begins:

“The voice of the serpent/slid into my ear, creaking/leather and snakeskin/black boots aslant…”

and ends:

“dead in the bath,/a drowned angel/who lost his voice”

This poem is preceded by a poem “for Leonard Cohen” and followed by a poem called “An Annunciation of Christ’s Dark Matter” “after David Bowie.” This poem contains lines from “Ashes to Ashes” (“strung out in heaven’s high”) and other Bowie tunes and is darkly evocative, as Bowie so often was.

We now have as inspiration a triumvirate of dead songwriters who were all also poets. A few pages later there is a poem called “Tightrope Annunciation.” Perhaps this truly is tenuous and reviewer-centric but there is a song on Other Voices, the album recorded by the three remaining Doors after Morrison’s death, called “Tightrope Ride.”

Loydell is a painter as well as a poet, so it is no surprise that some of the annunciations are based on paintings, such as Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Morning. The cover art is a study of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation.

“The Art of Silence” is three poems in one. The two columns can be read as individual poems or the lines can be read straight across to make one poem.

“The Deserted Garden” considers the first mother, Eve, who was pregnant, before Cain and Abel, with knowledge.

One of my favorite poems in Dear Mary is about annunciation as alien abduction. Impossible Songs contains a similarly themed poem titled “annunCIAtion,” which presents Mary’s experience as conspiracy theory. There are several theories therein of how she was impregnated (to which I add Roman centurion) and there is even a visit by the “men in black” (“secret agents or aliens”). Could the Pharisees and Sadducees been among their number? Or was it an infiltration?

“Notes on an Almost Annunciation” brings to mind Mary Lee Wile’s powerful novel Ancient Rage. While Mary and Jesus were made so much of, there was also Mary’s cousin Elizabeth and her son John the Baptist, who suffered much the same but didn’t quite get the press.

For readers who, like me, find added value in an artist coming back to subject matter again and again over time, especially when it is a single line or other form of bread crumb, the final line of the final poem in Impossible Songs is “The God-duck wore his Mitre at an angle in church on Sunday.” This line echoes back to a chapbook edited by Loydell titled The Gospel According to Archbishop Makeshift.

Speaking of chapbooks, along with Impossible Songs I received several quarter-fold chapbooks. Two in particular bear mention in the context of this review. They are point–counterpoint collaborations between Loydell and Peter Gillies and are titled “The Angel Gabriel is not Your Friend/The Angel Gabriel could be Your Cousin” and “Fra Angelico is not Your Friend/Fra Angelico could be Your Cousin.”

As evidenced by these three works, Loydell is mining themes that resonate with our times, leading to collaborations with a talented array of fellow poets, allowing for a synergistic pulse of varied views. He and his fellow travelers ask difficult questions and offer open-ended answers through the time-tested holy triad of ethos, logos, and pathos.

The grey space of possibility is one that more artists should commit to create in.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

J. Karl Bogartte, From AURÉ

Whispering Between Enemies, image by J. Karl Bogartte 


      Spread out in the grass beneath her feet like the Milky Way, a game of opponents and sympathizers in the House of Desperate Hours. Auré is a precise gathering of shrouds swimming out of contraband. Those voluptuous animals planted in consciousness... the ones that breathe with you in unison. In prescience there were signs of languorous revolt and violent kisses, preternatural saliva striking at the point of origin, spiraling down the stalk of amorous petals. On the bride’s table the pentagram of springtime coils up to strike.


      She resembles a slurred cormorant dialect, but always on time, compelling synapsis to seek the tissue of time and look through with the golden orals of your blood, your aurora... The drone-givers flower against reason. The oils are reversed. The fatal reconciliation of evening statues above the Boulevard of Apparitions, expel the glass balls of a sudden storm. The mycelia of your eyes that stain the pleasurable countenance of dwelling... She uses a knife for punctuation.


      Night is ovulating in the mirror, polishing eggs implanted in the earth, inside mannequins. Auré sleeps with you in mind, gathering her reflections into a furnace, stroking her medicines, squeezing out unavoidable solutions, smearing the children with shadows... The ghost of a chance, in the mother-tongue.


     The night-dripping heroine of the agave is cross-referenced with the inner circle, the old one, haggard and photographed and signed for a landscape, the hand-mirror skulking with the Egret of Deceptive Pleasure. The flight pattern, by particles of dust, when riddled with the body inside of the reflection. The framework pulls up nocturnal stakes, the preference of the bride, triangulated according to the laws of nature. A disturbance of pheromones and wailing. A night of prehistoric doorways, when marsupials shed their humanity for clairvoyant episodes and shameless humming. A projection lit by itself from behind...


      Between the stirring of others, with bird-like features into rain. Light hisses, when dimensional flux is honed by masters. A lair of increasing desire, skilled in the artifice of arousal and the counterfeit poses, forced, into light. Auré captured and riddled, defaced by insinuation and annoyance, swan-shaped, shadow of words. Placed among statues with subversive intent to ridicule, the great spinning helmets turn a circle into a stampede. The sea is the stain of your eyes. Seeing is undoing... while being watched is var- iegated and haphazard as a loving intoxication. Your grasp is a lunar addiction to whatever is invented to reflect each one of the pivotal positions of Auré. A fresh sequence of breeding...


      A scandal of empty mirrors and black angles. Mirror of ashes. Angles, to keep fitfully alive. In that irradiating and stirring, the pure glow-red of your aboriginal distinction. The sublimating in your portrait, the hidden gesture bereft of gypsies and that wild essential order of the sea. She is the wind-blown jasmine of an idiot King, the slip-shod correspondence, playing the ghostly games of a desperate conception, from black and white, to sepia, to radiance... to sway the eggs, delirious and hypnotic between the forgery and the candle. Where jackals ignite flowers, passing easily through walls.


      She has the hair of alcheringa and aisling, the soft Huron, in the sparkling of the amps and the antlers fallen, releasing warmth that speaks and shakes, and moves the earth into grooming. Her shore fevers, purloined with the joy of absence, wave-struck, with skeletal emanations polishing moths into fortune-tellers. Oxidation and crystallization empower a solarized splendor (as mimicry), just before rushing out to strangle it and shape it into furious portals. “For the wick that shares your eyes with voices, aligned, Aleya, Púca, Vilya, Min Min, Wii'ipay and the corpse candles of a sudden vivisection... And those who glow, bleeding radiance, breeding in spirals.”


      Theatre loves her, tripping the wires. Shoving the aurora through doorways. The dark-clotted printing machines of Auré, the vulgar latin scaffolding that momentarily blinds mystery, exchanging genders for weapons. “Who glows there, swallowing light?” Un-modeled. Convolutions fading into a distant projection. Cantabrian lace aching for distraction. Subliminal maneuvers designed to accommodate erotic elegies and other caressing sensations. Shadowing the acrobats, relentless vessels. Feral dreams emulating incantations...


      She resembles a slurred cormorant dialect, but always on time, compelling synapsis to seek the tissue of time and look through with the golden orals of your blood, your aurora... The drone-givers flower against reason. The oils are reversed. The fatal reconciliation of evening statues above the Boulevard of Apparitions, expel the glass balls of a sudden storm. The mycelia of your eyes that stain the pleasurable countenance of dwelling... She uses a knife for punctuation.


      Spread out in the grass beneath her feet like the Milky Way, a game of opponents and sympathizers in the House of Desperate Hours. Auré is a precise gathering of shrouds swimming out of contraband. Those voluptuous animals planted in consciousness... the ones that breathe with you in unison. In prescience there were signs of languorous revolt and violent kisses, preternatural saliva striking at the point of origin, spiraling down the stalk of amorous petals. On the bride’s table the pentagram of springtime coils up to strike.


      “The wind, leopard...” “The rain, assassin...” The book, sister to the bell-tower, gathering steam, remote from the forest, burnt by moonlight into a long-limbed calyx that spins around in circles, repeating your name, a coupling of numbers, kissing only water, savage computations. Shadowboxing with consciousness. Life is that breath of Jívaro dust blown into the face. A clockwork scent drawing blood, where indigo climbs into darkness. Crushed into light.

—J. Karl Bogartte