A
penchant for heuristic pendulums, image by J. Karl Bogartte
Raising statues against
mythology
In light-yielding travesties you
flux out into glass vials of long voyages, looming detours for a phoenix climb,
a mad dash into slip of the tongue. Shadows come and go on roller skates,
shadows slip in to amuse, they multiply and masquerade. To assume the
character, the plural of blue times twice again the flame, wheeling into the
voyance of a certain clarity barely visible. They enter through the windows of
a portrait in emulsion, auteur incognito and haberdashery, feverish sign
language to emulate decisive evasion.
*
Sinister, mirrored, loves Glimmer,
shadowed, with Fable in obscura, splintering down a staircase that could be
anywhere, a landscape bleeding from your wrists, the brightest light of
invocation, for immaculate anarchy of touch. Dark web of electricals powering
bodily molecules for unauthorized night flights. When you close your eyes…
ellebore in phantom pilfering. Bathing in the blind. When you speak, words are
never the same, tuning obscure practices for morning rituals.
*
Descending whore of the aurora,
seaworthy vessel transporting Bird of Paradise with invisible ink and the lofty
facets of apothecary delights. You confess with weapons to the mercenary
metronome in the clock-filled Castillo de la Atalaya, where the voyeurs weep
over past and present particles. When the soft illuminées implant their
incantations, without remorse, hybrid erotic morphology for lamping and sepia
for blush, a body landscaped for shiver and aura.
*
Shining in the darkness of sudden
stone, radiance flickering through your anatomy of blackboards in a haze of
chalk for droning and dwarf, swarm and satellite… rotating, with each keeper
the gates are swinging in nightward motion. Rooted in rocks, mandrágora
germinating, life threatening into fire by water…
*
Toppled magnifying glasses were
Minoan, for the cyclists, and no one is ever denied for candlewax, for
intervention and sweet cobra. Membrane of lunar Sororum lamped and laddered
with lacrimal mimicry, you are surging empath, throne into optic nerve, for “I
am pupillary procession of egrets and unnatural tinkerers in empty streets, I
am constantly vanishing…” Only the ridiculous keyhole vendor knows the
paradoxical elements of wonder…
*
In madly flickering eyelids, the
marvelous codes as sibilant as a sniper’s dream, she anticipated what radiant
banshee reflects the moon, duplicates her pandering and subtle kindling. A
skeletal hysteria is a corneal antechamber, sister of altered memory filled to
overflowing and masked with antlers squeezing sunlight out of a fatal impulse
to leave Damascus at once… “I can’t remember when that happened. When dialogue
veered off into convulsion, when the rose burst into flames. There were ghostly
figures in the railyard at twilight. Demonic buzzing for bursting seeds, opening
doors…”
*
A lunar uncertainty, trembling
encouraged. The belly for an albatross, strikes a chord, music of a sudden
switchblade. Spinning of a river into the unorthodox angle of your mirror, you
consider all that is missing, you place images directed with fire. Raven in the
fog is the silence of a siren, interrupting gestures, the wind stops to explore
its own splinters, blood bright and singing. Your body shimmers with howling
sensations… After midnight the Jestering Corvidians throw carpets to fashion
the unorthodox changing of magnetism into loving pillage. To reverse the dream
of candles into mirrors.
*
Guided by the stonemason’s revenge,
and the dancing girl’s bright green pharmaceuticals, Sable shook the alembics
of indecent exposure. You were perplexed by whatever outcome shook the last
refuge of the alchemist’s hoax. Altered objects were the symbols of
impersonation, held in the highest regard. Your hexagon was a more decisive
movement than the paradoxical caress of lightning bugs, but just as
pleasurable. You spin night-figures into lost objects. Your reward is a
procession of dangerous glances.
*
You staked out your fondest dreams
for aimless wandering, no theories, only shudders and animal grunts. A season
of witchcraft for moral reasons… she loved the wasps for her sex and the
pollination of enchanted vectors. You left the text to its own devices,
intricate silence, shedding plumage for devastating windows.
*
Awareness is the panic of Mycenean
flowers pressed against your body releasing the secrets of some ancient
inexplicable delirium. Waking in the middle of a dream, pathways of the unseen.
Love letters to set off explosives.
*
The folie of antiquity is the
calculus of desperate solutions. The main characters have changed over the
centuries, elevating the jagged imagery of the gem-cutters. Identity is
following the warble of Basajaun and the invisible locks of matriarchal
dictation. Hot on the heels of
hummingbird gravity, for balance, the servants were more than happy to evolve
their splendors of illicit engagements. Following “I am the devastation of
shadow and reflection when they dance and intermingle, the buzzing of
intermittent nuptials…“ there will always be the resulting “Evasive measures
are conspiratorial when telepathy is passionate enough for erotic
intervention…” and the language of bees fills in all the empty spaces…
*
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…
*
Night after night, unwrapping,
wrapping each fetish into dropping porcelain, pinned by her spindles into aeronautical
enhancement. The central heaviness of forward leaning, primal carriage for
disfiguring enticement, unexpected galaxy of swan-clashing. Dipping to
acquiesce, disturbances of loving objects, keeps you awake past the witching
hour… when she spirits into the ruins of enchanting stares, an empty envelope
twitching on the table…
*
Muse shedding, shredding the
invented gaze. Reinvented… You convey the magical cabinet of splicing and
precursors, capsizing the form a seabed takes to cross the shell-shock of
sudden signals with the whispering word. She always understood the unspeakable,
the wretched intoxication of animal sighs. Now is coming, that was then…
The hours shed their skins. A character of antlers. Drawing blood outside of
circles.
*
Your red gloves, the costume of
ashes, your projecting encantado of fleece, she reminded you in offering
persistent salamander, a ghostly pillage for a flood. Breathing new desires out
of spine-ignited morality plays. Molecular flow… The flaw of life is filled in
by the fountain of leaving life.
*
To signify is to lathe, as loom is
too soon before alluding, to panther-dancing in the sunlight. Ambiguous clarity
for traveling, passing messages to strangers of ermine. The sex of an object is
the ladle of tumultuous archaeology. Obsessing the arc to her consent.
Equinoxial forest of lost numbers. Defending that parallel to an evening
flower, to a weapon of desirable ruses. Offering bright roses. To objecting,
but delicious paradigms of wingless clowning.
*
Hawk-listen, claw marks for a door,
arc of the moon-bitch uttering and altering. She is disturbing, a ripped cocoon
like an Elk-identified stealth, speaking to you from the wind-rattling surface
of things. “I throw my nights into the landscape, taking my eyes, my mouth,
breath…” Raising figures of light. Consciousness settles into the foreground,
the mist of morning pollination. A dog-like appearance. “How long before an
apparition takes my place?”
—J. Karl Bogartte
