Saturday, March 9, 2019

J. Karl Bogartte, Illegal Reflections…


Shadow is a magical pet, image by J. Karl Bogartte




Illegal Reflections…


It is true that sometimes metamorphosis comes only later in the evening, when your ribcage is far too light for such heaviness of blossoms, and too dark for springtime with its incisions and unsettling incandescence.

*

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…

*

There is speculation around the frame of decisive moments, petals to cloak the whispering sewing machine of pollen-covered torchlights. Your face to a blindman’s bluff. The sensation of mourning, cursing with vertical disentanglement.

*

Throwing sepals for the joy of secret messages, fanciful erasures, frantic wondering what is… You chose another birthright, leaving history to itself. To begin again and again, without ever beginning. The author is unknown. The fur of animals embraced, speaking through your mind, as lightning tree rooting, as breathing bodies transparent, seeing through levels of living through. The sun erases, the moon through your bones.

*

The qua of desire and resistance, how could you reverse your point of view, how could, you, window beneath the skin fostering medical liquids, with green lions and Orpheus in shambles. Your body burns with Egrets and tender velocities. The escapades of memory and heteroclite deviations compete, with monstrous and fanciful sundials. Silkworms incanting in unison, desirable to silence the world.           

*

Hubris and detritus, anomalies running rampant with vipering whispers, amorous ubiquity. Where sudden Tiliqua festivals in orphic mirrors driving out of soil, incubating unthinkable scenarios for imps an“I came here only for this…” to see…  as the château guards have left…  Only visions remain. The critique is a traveling circus, light rooted in fire. Fire is night, a species of rendezvous, with marvelous hind legs. Makes love following pain receptors into the glow of humorous webs. Friction sensitivity is high…

*

The armature of lucidity, rancid flower, all that throws the navigator for a loop throws the wing full of brighter passages... there is also you, and others, your others, together, to embalm to emulsify in molecular eyes, flickering flashbacks, spinning herons for intrauterine slime. Still, adoration persists.

*

Somewhere, light on a mirror points to a shadow, that knows you intimately, always finds you, like one breath finds another, the pleasure of struggling enacts a corona of debatable lampposts. A biological theory of magical properties brightly growing out of ontic fabulations and erotic intercessions, polished to last a lifetime, like a herd of traveling clocks. It cannot be avoided. Those interposing conundrums in search of the most precious stones, those that travel inconspicuously… 

*

A mumbling savant keeps the chronologists at bay, takes apart those lost Huron consternations, planting morning glories for clarity. A lovesick girl who is perpetually lighting candles… A sorceress without mercy, with training wheels for archival balance. Your transparency enables that luminosity of over-riding concerns, being seen through, for a vast landscape that doesn’t know you. Imagines you. But who you are. The absurd brilliance of re-inhabiting your body with no precedent. Mumbling… Imprinting…

*

She let you in, to the mirror, the fiction, into shadow. For her you were seahorse and Saracen, tail first and cabal, pool-like and sleight of hand… 

*

The antlered guardian is a tiptoed dwarf veiled in royal chemise, espionage, dipped in ink and wolf-shaped. To be torched into transparency.


—J. Karl Bogartte

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