The Unspeakable Coitus of Mylius, image by J. Karl Bogartte
Black Market
The shadow of a fresh kill is the
end of silence, the ever-present ring of enchantment. The spark of rattling
insects... Nothing is ever finished, it just continues, changing places with
memory... A vague reference to a dance of wild whispering.
*
There’s lightning in the moth house,
ghost glow in the underground, and the light from when to dazzle the almost then,
mindful of radiant anomalies. And even through the windows of ambiguous desire.
The enchantment of one who interrupts your gaze…
*
Through shadows of the face, of more
light, swimming pathology, pausing in the runes… You spread out like a
mythology. Shadows of lunatic endgames. The XXIII key, missing link to her
voice of glowing loam. Time-warp to skeletal maze, burning a window in the
garden. Owl-turning, dust-making. She lamps out, dividing the spoils.
*
Night with its terrors, leaping through
hoops. Nagual trapeze. You are upright panting and sleek. Marked. But cunning
and random, drawn into a circle. Always an unauthorized approach. Consciousness
passed through eyes… and at night, from mouth to mouth. Breath to breath,
passage through the skin, to transparency…
*
The desire to kill someone is equaled
only by the desire to bring them back to life again... the rest is immoral.
*
A girl infected with candles, mirror of
the humming. In a cloud, leopards, for the revolver, braille, a semblance of
movement, long-stemmed invoking of ancient wiles. In that landscape you are fog
the color of bees in sunlight, in cinema, a doorway for binding spells, broken
into glowing.
*
A language of water opens the door to
illusive interiors, in the field at night, when the walls are costumes begging
to be worn, sheer and unsettling, effortless. Cause and effect grappling with
the energy of presence, the hidden... If you spread your legs, for light, there
is the candle dripping darkness for sleep and spell. The first spell, the
primal incantation that takes you by surprise, even as it exhausts
itself.
*
“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.
*
Marvelous derisions begin to pass
expressions of love between masks and triangular numbers. Paradoxical bedouins
exchanging keys and mannequins, measured with subliminal eyes. You sleep like
lit candles in many places. Eyes of torture and trapeze, softly humming.
Light-headed passageways. The least resistant stepping-stone, axis of negative.
For the time remaining, against what might be expected. You take your leave. It
troubles the heart. You go with fire...
Grace is the art of luring ravenous dogs
into a state of springtime.
*
Candle entices the fabric of a violent
glance, draws Masque out of reverie with sudden leopards that guide the
pleasure principle through walls of an ancient wailing. Masque suckles the
ashes of invisible sacrifice. Rain condemns Spell while releasing her words of
love. Candle spreads her legs, inviting the tall revolvers into compelling
shapes, clues, devoted whispers. A fountain of antibodies switching analogies
with night, escaping without harm.
*
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.
*
Amethyst of exchanging blood that ravages
equality in the mother tongue, when the moon is a cat’s cradle in the sea of
consciousness, of civil war in the telepathy of rebellious spirits, lovers in
the fields of lunacy...
*
The daughter of glow-worms painting
portraits of mysterious females and the reindeer’s ghostly double, all
perfectly cracked like glass, like an intrusion, like a flight into the
obscurity of uncharted whispering. A slight touch on the shoulder, the movement
of an affair between invasion and emanation, the pitch of bone against bone,
faces merging in the moisture of a single word chosen among all the others. A
vampire word...
Starlight is a liquid used to power a
whispering machine.
*
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 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.
*
Slowly dying insects power the molecular
light of surprise endings. You are not waking without roots, without sipping
blood, without that urgent female timepiece erupting inside a bewildering city
ever so slowly landing in a body abandoned on the highway, emitting sparks.
—J. Karl Bogartte
