Sense, image by J. Karl Bogartte
Caution
Is Not For Silence
(Selections
from The Red King)
Night in braille, poison and
antidote for a hybrid of black and flower slashed by ultraviolet. To breathe
clairvoyance through stone, speaking in tongues to the lost fingerprints
traveling incognito towards daybreak. A single image replaces your history with
layers of silence turned by paws into unrecognizable balconies. Light speaks,
night listens. Pearls circling a miasma of gestures seeking an entrance.
*
For intoxication, there is fur for
the enchanter’s tower, facial-lepidoptera for pelvic charm, dimensional
collusion to enrich your brow of forgotten plumage. What is remembered is the
irritation of possibility. The sting of dark perception. Primal movement,
irresistible language pulled out of water for flame… What is recognizable as
something, is unrecognizable as other into another. The mind is like the
irritability of a missing limb. Language is the missing body. Breathing is the
enchantment of movement. Plumage is formidable...
*
Flood, intoxication of the
wolf-crystal, she is everywhere. A marvelous moisture. Scent understands you,
follows your patterns of behavior. Drawn to what enables your defiance, figures
of celluloid and slate and womb-like chairs invading your appearance.
Long-haired and spindle-bursting for Flood who slumbers in the arms of Ghostly
Apparel who burns brightly with Morphology. They are the whispers of default,
litter of early rising dew. “Only shadows allowed in this place…”
*
“I am bound to you by clavicle and
discord, a theory of corpse flowers for an aleatory conjuration… You
transformed on the pollen table. I hardly know you by sight. I follow your
footprints. I dissolve when necessary. I ignite.” You are not only an image…
Incendiary.
*
No defeat, ever, salacious crisis
for memory out of shuddering movement, to disregard, but for that delirious
conspiring to incandescence.
*
Tomorrow arrives ahead of notice,
through the open door, a one-eyed Quasimodo telescoping out of childish glee,
altered by your gaze. The way to tell it without a story, but a dancing veil
combining numbers that outpace each other, unlock entrances with
shadow-language for the ones who never arrive, or return.
*
A desirable field approaches your
body's edges, great walls inscribed by birds ignited for awareness.
*
You appear to be only a rumor in
the dark, only your shadow remains, half visible, outward cascade, roots toward
cartilage, harp of the mouth, tracing whose face it was, whose absence that
belonged to hearsay. Strange letters, mixed messages, diurnal, maternal
language… A fog shadow behind your eyes seething with vanishing points, thrown
behind you, the flapping machine of Santos-Dumont, strapped-on wings to
resemble the rose of untouched lips, parted... A vagrant sewing machine stopped
suddenly in mid thread…
*
The antlered guardian is a tiptoed
dwarf veiled in royal chemise, espionage, dipped in mercury and wolf-shaped. To
be torched into transparency.
*
Bright loves dark, befitting
plumage, tempest of rain that ignites the skin, inside the wedding… outside,
master of the rain, hard flowering. Stone is breath, is waterfall. You can only
stay for a moment, to sputter and die in mirage… The air is bright with
fingerprints of paradoxical locksmiths and keystrokes of cobalt and landmines
of bone-lives against the realm. Tresses for the witch-chairs and which ones…
Which ones…
*
She is chaste to defile the rules
of the game, psychology toppled in another, another move, other displacement,
moon revealed. Toppled by the Queen, pivoted by pawns, to hook and crook, the
castle keeping… The Red King on his tripod, in the photograph despised, by sea
shored in luminescence. All that you see is obscure and excitable, to exist in
a sudden glance, blood is theory until smeared with sunlight. She let you into
the haze, the semblance, into the counterfeit.
*
Awkward bodies flowering in the shadows,
defeat their reflections. But always too bright to see. Caution is not for
silence, but for light. Delirious is open, naked for Deception, who aviates in
tune with tell-tale sights, zeroing in on anything simultaneous, here and
there. To force a glow and a disappearance, polished by the storm. Hollowed out
by a sudden shiver.
*
Her mouth of opium, above the
looking glass disturbance, and so below, dripping in moonlight. Obsidian flakes
in her breath. She is aleatory and hacker, untouchable trust and synopsis
hammered precisely out of smoke…
*
Lamp is perilous when
sleep-wandering, blue with vaulting. Like fruit that dies into splendor, like a
slab of crystal, decoded, like the very last kiss between characters that never
meet. “Because you’re not speaking the right words…”
*
When trees are buzzing, the skin
crawls…
*
By
animal warmth and eyelight, shaking the heron rattle in the lightning bed,
cutting night into ladders and depth of field. The entrances grow further
apart, the others growing more ambiguous, raising a deeper turbulence of
instinct… To mingle with fury, elasticity for the body’s aboriginal web.
*
The
jewelry-keepers are the magnetic poles of asymmetrical dialogue. The dark
sub-rosa tourniquet arrives when poppies disrobe the alchemists for the red and
blue shifts. The Mare speaks night when cornered in the Alcove of Rapture…
riddled with systemic dialects… the way you ache for only that curious intimacy
of ambiguous arcs. The bright ones, the whispering, those disjointed ones and
the ones that hallucinate for wandering.
— J. Karl Bogartte
