Night Throwing Weapons
A glorious night of Eucalyptus and throwing cocktails, licking lips, fierce debates, fading shadows of the sun, the amorous acrobats persist. The grief of loving fingers, cultivating poppies… and pangolins speaking to the trees … Always amiss with a lantern, a lost manuscript, emeralds defying gravity for a sudden Icarus made out of glass. Passing through a crowded leopard.
The water lilies of your body, the pleasures of a knife. Your tongue probing the hive …
Pandora-shaped weapons gathering steam, to never unkey loving messages with Lilium and Canna providing rumors from Ecuador. Every starry night is every equestrian’s dream. For terror and innocence. For mastery, over the impossible, formulating question marks. The mystery of rituals without interpretation, emitting a mirage for a secretive dialogue, between sighs and signs. It all passes, in passing through. Flesh frozen in fire. For sustenance. Untamed.
Animal presence, always torrential. Sleeping deep inside the wolf. Hunger is new and much brighter than before. Tables rising out of the earth for spell binding … “This shadow revealing essential acts of defiance. No script, but with frequent schisms, interruptions. Reversing characters for conundrums …”
All that remains, in defiance, more molecules, sparking in air, sighted, in situ of chance remains, detains, revolving, her body of clamorous snarling. The extended arcing, those slips of the tongue. There is animal blood in your eyes. Splendor of the mouth. Extended cinema. Blood flows for illumination, translated into hissing.
Generating auricles for streetlights, spiders for syrup, beauty dressed in violence. In your image, only cellular sparks in the air, pulled together for an entrance at the margins of attraction.
The haphazard intrigues of antithetical vision, sequence of lost and found movement, it is how you gaze at anything else, at anyone quoted, laid upon by a place where primal metamorphosis unwraps it corpse-flowering-like strange amorous gifts. A summer travesty glowing like rain.
Love is conspiracy to commit mayhem.
J. Karl Bogartte
SULFUR 