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
