Tuesday, September 5, 2017

J. Karl Bogartte, From AURÉ


Whispering Between Enemies, image by J. Karl Bogartte 




From AURÉ


      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



No comments:

Post a Comment