A
Derisive Luminosity (44” x 58”) 2014, image by J. Karl Bogartte
The
Golden Hour
Darkness burns mazes into the
avenues where your solitude nests, unveiling the youthful siblings of uneasy
inventions, seductive ciphers and vague spyglasses whispering endearing
phrases... the cello attracts rival veils and slips of the tongue.
Your presence is deceptive, a
garden of delirious stains.
The invention of night, the ageless
question of impossible balance, the pilot’s daughter eating crystals: To fill
the world with light, the void with imaginary bodies glowing in the dark...
She has not been spoken of for many
years, she is mything vitreous and tapping pawns for tallow, she is quickening
her fluidity, to divert and disguise. Light poured into lacerations the way
shadows enter clothing, for only a moment, or two, only a hidden space. A
translation, for throwing phantoms into invisible walls. She is myth-ratcheting amorous, chiding
brutal structures for mountainous beckoning, to corrupt with pleasure.
The ancient horned flower of your
psyche attracts the devoted milking machines, the aboriginal veins of a fabric
that propels your footsteps as determined as her threads slipping into light,
vanishing in the blink of an eye.
Dark and greedy, the always secret
and ever vanishing body of torrential mirroring.
The glow between living and ceasing
to live, emulates the long-legged cascade in her whispering circuitry, the gaze
of rain is corrupted film, caught in the act, disguised by pleasure purring in
gradually brightening passwords. The catapult of an unfinished sentence, turned
to provoke, to stroke and latent in state, the light separates your body from
its own darkness.
The perfect alignment through the
axis of its twin, quartered and shelled in the gasping for breath and emerald,
adored and pandered for pleasure and sight unseen, she licks herself in meadows
of ermine and chimera, aching, angelica posing in the likeness of her bees
sipping, through every sense of pulling ravens out of her body for kindling.
The perverse pleasures of the
captured bride dove-tailed in the mathematical equation of the city held up for
example by the stars.
The scorpion-headed mannequin, your
shadow striking inward for contact with the natural world. The empty animated
gloves shaking out contentment in the garden, eyelids of entropy emitting seeds
and slow rituals…
Dark gravitational assignations
seduced into amulets the color of glass, evolving in sequential chiaroscuro,
tempting blood where (in the Manor of Sighs) the barbarian sign language seizes
the images of your being in the rich, antiquarian lucidity of your extinction.
Your face, or the features of night in the fever of graceful spirits that still
come to drink the liquid of life out of your hands, the pendulum... An evening
of theater runs ahead...
Trapping belladonna between the
lines, between her legs, between phases, to embrace the blindness of your
murmuring, pushing out between her lips, the lost hermeticism of albino
checkmates.
The weapon you most cherished was
feminine. The wedge forced into the appearance of things was ambiguous with its
dark insistence and wind‐up
astronomy, clicking and whirring about in circles and broken up by triangles
into long, interminable caresses that went on forever, imitating a newly
discovered galaxy quivering in the nearness of wolves.
There is only the daughter of
Icarus, without mirrors, the shadow of uncertainty that surrounds the ribcage
of a philosophical paradox, only the stone of a primitive light, only the
glance that hatches in the fire, the optical mainspring of a science that runs
amok, only the ciphers leading the fossils of daybreak, and the glowing of
those beings you feed each morning, the pools of blood dripping out of your
dreams. Flight is only the body torn by light, powered by obscene gestures. A
choreography of wish fulfillment.
There is always the
diamond-cutter’s unremitting caress, always those great moths entering your
eyes in a frenzy of unconditional attraction, clearing a space for the ermine
of humor, and the misplaced objects of great value.
Among the various diversions and
unforeseen discoveries, when the shallow end of a gesture foreshadows a long
and hazardous recovery, and sudden landings in desolate places, it is your eyes
most of all that appear as an interlocking resolution, or the honor among
thieves.
The dark elopes, hydroplaning,
self-eloping, shaping the ghost hunters. She lives outside of the hour
light-embalmed within her shell and taken by the hand in secret. They
double-side in a miserable silence. The cave that writes a reflection across
your eyes. Deserted... In her divide is the rattle and the awkward torch of
precise gesticulation. An unnatural dance among innocent victims. Cherished
presence smeared on your face.
—J. Karl Bogartte
