Wednesday, October 3, 2018

J. Karl Bogartte, Raising statues against mythology


A penchant for heuristic pendulums, image by J. Karl Bogartte  





Raising statues against mythology


In light-yielding travesties you flux out into glass vials of long voyages, looming detours for a phoenix climb, a mad dash into slip of the tongue. Shadows come and go on roller skates, shadows slip in to amuse, they multiply and masquerade. To assume the character, the plural of blue times twice again the flame, wheeling into the voyance of a certain clarity barely visible. They enter through the windows of a portrait in emulsion, auteur incognito and haberdashery, feverish sign language to emulate decisive evasion.

*

Sinister, mirrored, loves Glimmer, shadowed, with Fable in obscura, splintering down a staircase that could be anywhere, a landscape bleeding from your wrists, the brightest light of invocation, for immaculate anarchy of touch. Dark web of electricals powering bodily molecules for unauthorized night flights. When you close your eyes… ellebore in phantom pilfering. Bathing in the blind. When you speak, words are never the same, tuning obscure practices for morning rituals.

*

Descending whore of the aurora, seaworthy vessel transporting Bird of Paradise with invisible ink and the lofty facets of apothecary delights. You confess with weapons to the mercenary metronome in the clock-filled Castillo de la Atalaya, where the voyeurs weep over past and present particles. When the soft illuminées implant their incantations, without remorse, hybrid erotic morphology for lamping and sepia for blush, a body landscaped for shiver and aura.

*

Shining in the darkness of sudden stone, radiance flickering through your anatomy of blackboards in a haze of chalk for droning and dwarf, swarm and satellite… rotating, with each keeper the gates are swinging in nightward motion. Rooted in rocks, mandrágora germinating, life threatening into fire by water…

*

Toppled magnifying glasses were Minoan, for the cyclists, and no one is ever denied for candlewax, for intervention and sweet cobra. Membrane of lunar Sororum lamped and laddered with lacrimal mimicry, you are surging empath, throne into optic nerve, for “I am pupillary procession of egrets and unnatural tinkerers in empty streets, I am constantly vanishing…” Only the ridiculous keyhole vendor knows the paradoxical elements of wonder…

*

In madly flickering eyelids, the marvelous codes as sibilant as a sniper’s dream, she anticipated what radiant banshee reflects the moon, duplicates her pandering and subtle kindling. A skeletal hysteria is a corneal antechamber, sister of altered memory filled to overflowing and masked with antlers squeezing sunlight out of a fatal impulse to leave Damascus at once… “I can’t remember when that happened. When dialogue veered off into convulsion, when the rose burst into flames. There were ghostly figures in the railyard at twilight. Demonic buzzing for bursting seeds, opening doors…”

*

A lunar uncertainty, trembling encouraged. The belly for an albatross, strikes a chord, music of a sudden switchblade. Spinning of a river into the unorthodox angle of your mirror, you consider all that is missing, you place images directed with fire. Raven in the fog is the silence of a siren, interrupting gestures, the wind stops to explore its own splinters, blood bright and singing. Your body shimmers with howling sensations… After midnight the Jestering Corvidians throw carpets to fashion the unorthodox changing of magnetism into loving pillage. To reverse the dream of candles into mirrors.

*

Guided by the stonemason’s revenge, and the dancing girl’s bright green pharmaceuticals, Sable shook the alembics of indecent exposure. You were perplexed by whatever outcome shook the last refuge of the alchemist’s hoax. Altered objects were the symbols of impersonation, held in the highest regard. Your hexagon was a more decisive movement than the paradoxical caress of lightning bugs, but just as pleasurable. You spin night-figures into lost objects. Your reward is a procession of dangerous glances.

*

You staked out your fondest dreams for aimless wandering, no theories, only shudders and animal grunts. A season of witchcraft for moral reasons… she loved the wasps for her sex and the pollination of enchanted vectors. You left the text to its own devices, intricate silence, shedding plumage for devastating windows.

*

Awareness is the panic of Mycenean flowers pressed against your body releasing the secrets of some ancient inexplicable delirium. Waking in the middle of a dream, pathways of the unseen. Love letters to set off explosives.

*

The folie of antiquity is the calculus of desperate solutions. The main characters have changed over the centuries, elevating the jagged imagery of the gem-cutters. Identity is following the warble of Basajaun and the invisible locks of matriarchal dictation.  Hot on the heels of hummingbird gravity, for balance, the servants were more than happy to evolve their splendors of illicit engagements. Following “I am the devastation of shadow and reflection when they dance and intermingle, the buzzing of intermittent nuptials…“ there will always be the resulting “Evasive measures are conspiratorial when telepathy is passionate enough for erotic intervention…” and the language of bees fills in all the empty spaces… 

*

A centuries-old staircase of the anesthetic sundial. Aspects of solar-branching to project your otherwise illegal reflections. This makes you ill-at-ease for a time-exposure. She spread out her rags and molting in the earth with condolences, mazing into an entrance of scintillating black fur for analogies of undivided attention. Pleasure is a radiant solution, spread with a knife.

*

A white-eyed slandering into mist, to bring them wildly into focus again, when streetlights followed each journey out of itself, out of scalpel-sense. There is no freeze-frame to show it, when the film fires up a childhood interruption, a moment of celluloid dripping on the window… All the objects devoted to their faces were soon disheveled by unexplained words, enflamed with wasps and the precious cargo of cautious mint. An unexpected evening arrives, a skeletal ménage à trois. When your blindfold is removed…

*

Night after night, unwrapping, wrapping each fetish into dropping porcelain, pinned by her spindles into aeronautical enhancement. The central heaviness of forward leaning, primal carriage for disfiguring enticement, unexpected galaxy of swan-clashing. Dipping to acquiesce, disturbances of loving objects, keeps you awake past the witching hour… when she spirits into the ruins of enchanting stares, an empty envelope twitching on the table…

*

Muse shedding, shredding the invented gaze. Reinvented… You convey the magical cabinet of splicing and precursors, capsizing the form a seabed takes to cross the shell-shock of sudden signals with the whispering word. She always understood the unspeakable, the wretched intoxication of animal sighs. Now is coming, that was then The hours shed their skins. A character of antlers. Drawing blood outside of circles.

*

Your red gloves, the costume of ashes, your projecting encantado of fleece, she reminded you in offering persistent salamander, a ghostly pillage for a flood. Breathing new desires out of spine-ignited morality plays. Molecular flow… The flaw of life is filled in by the fountain of leaving life.

*

To signify is to lathe, as loom is too soon before alluding, to panther-dancing in the sunlight. Ambiguous clarity for traveling, passing messages to strangers of ermine. The sex of an object is the ladle of tumultuous archaeology. Obsessing the arc to her consent. Equinoxial forest of lost numbers. Defending that parallel to an evening flower, to a weapon of desirable ruses. Offering bright roses. To objecting, but delicious paradigms of wingless clowning.

*

Hawk-listen, claw marks for a door, arc of the moon-bitch uttering and altering. She is disturbing, a ripped cocoon like an Elk-identified stealth, speaking to you from the wind-rattling surface of things. “I throw my nights into the landscape, taking my eyes, my mouth, breath…” Raising figures of light. Consciousness settles into the foreground, the mist of morning pollination. A dog-like appearance. “How long before an apparition takes my place?”



—J. Karl Bogartte
  

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