Shadow is a magical pet, image by J. Karl Bogartte
Illegal
Reflections…
It is true that sometimes
metamorphosis comes only later in the evening, when your ribcage is far too
light for such heaviness of blossoms, and too dark for springtime with its
incisions and unsettling incandescence.
*
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…
*
There is speculation around the
frame of decisive moments, petals to cloak the whispering sewing machine of
pollen-covered torchlights. Your face to a blindman’s bluff. The sensation of
mourning, cursing with vertical disentanglement.
*
Throwing sepals for the joy of
secret messages, fanciful erasures, frantic wondering what is… You chose another birthright, leaving history to itself.
To begin again and again, without ever beginning. The author is unknown. The
fur of animals embraced, speaking through your mind, as lightning tree rooting,
as breathing bodies transparent, seeing through levels of living through. The
sun erases, the moon through your bones.
*
The qua of desire and resistance,
how could you reverse your point of view, how could, you, window beneath the
skin fostering medical liquids, with green lions and Orpheus in shambles. Your
body burns with Egrets and tender velocities. The escapades of memory and
heteroclite deviations compete, with monstrous and fanciful sundials. Silkworms
incanting in unison, desirable to silence the world.
*
Hubris and detritus, anomalies
running rampant with vipering whispers, amorous ubiquity. Where sudden Tiliqua
festivals in orphic mirrors driving out of soil, incubating unthinkable
scenarios for imps and “I
came here only for this…” to see… as the
château guards have left… Only visions
remain. The critique is a traveling circus, light rooted in fire. Fire is
night, a species of rendezvous, with marvelous hind legs. Makes love following
pain receptors into the glow of humorous webs. Friction sensitivity is high…
*
The armature of lucidity, rancid
flower, all that throws the navigator for a loop throws the wing full of
brighter passages... there is also you, and others, your others, together, to
embalm to emulsify in molecular eyes, flickering flashbacks, spinning herons
for intrauterine slime. Still, adoration persists.
*
Somewhere, light on a mirror points
to a shadow, that knows you intimately, always finds you, like one breath finds
another, the pleasure of struggling enacts a corona of debatable lampposts. A
biological theory of magical properties brightly growing out of ontic
fabulations and erotic intercessions, polished to last a lifetime, like a herd
of traveling clocks. It cannot be avoided. Those interposing conundrums in
search of the most precious stones, those that travel inconspicuously…
*
A mumbling savant keeps the chronologists
at bay, takes apart those lost Huron consternations, planting morning glories
for clarity. A lovesick girl who is perpetually lighting candles… A sorceress
without mercy, with training wheels for archival balance. Your transparency
enables that luminosity of over-riding concerns, being seen through, for a vast
landscape that doesn’t know you. Imagines you. But who you are. The absurd
brilliance of re-inhabiting your body with no precedent. Mumbling… Imprinting…
*
She let you in, to the mirror, the
fiction, into shadow. For her you were seahorse and Saracen, tail first and
cabal, pool-like and sleight of hand…
*
The antlered guardian is a tiptoed
dwarf veiled in royal chemise, espionage, dipped in ink and wolf-shaped. To be
torched into transparency.
—J.
Karl Bogartte
