PASSING THROUGH A CROWED LEOPARD
The word aurora begins again beneath counterfeit, without wings, animal sense wheeled into vanishing point with magnets. Your reflection devoid of glass. You recognize your face, your imprint in water, gear-struck and mainspring, stained with primitive invention. Out in the yard at night, fondling pitchforks, eating mist. A limpid embrace, phantom arteries approaching the superior joy of antlers. Invisible limbs growing radiant bodies.
Anvil of lucidity with wings, deer with artillery. A waltz, a long night of effigies. As sovereign filter through green vials, she protects you with her eyes, her teeth. Asia with her space of ape-like narratives in secret auctions, she is the torment of bees and unsigned documents.
Saved by assassinations, time springs, released by charming snakes. The words matter that dissolve for guardians, blood-letting, the birds, your shadow is burning with birds and the finely tuned detonations of what cannot, or ever be spoken, except in silence, addressed to silence …
On the other side of the wall, rumors of a certain potential prevail, rapture of the bees inside. Slashing watermarks into galactic stems. For salamanders secreting mannequins for the shielding of perfect strangers. What models appear are invisible, primal matters, tremble.
A springtime of white-haired machines, black-skinned detonations, fate of the telepathic rose “my love …” to follow the moon-riddled throat of resplendent likeness. Both living and into past, while the sirens paused in midair spreading to breed.
The vapors of night, the irresistible crime …
Occult caressing Analogies, on all fours, triangulated and pushed into friction and arc, in passing through, spokes to undermine. Movement is to arc as enchanted is to delirious germinations. After the last letters, the last zero … silting mimosa, barking, the spinning the amorous the paradoxical absence projecting a very long and tumultuous shadow. High-pitched and elongated. Indigo sleeps, exhausted and filled with glowing sensations. Loom is another species. Together they incubate. Leaving profuse messages. Signals. A dazzling succession of waves.
The sound of hybrid triangles interlocking without hesitation. All is lost for the shuddering scent that skins you living, with acrobatic exhalation. The one that intoxicates. Deep and searing. The rising dust liberated from its dark devious windows.
There are no angels here, only elusive shimmers, neurons changing shapes. “Beware, the dervishes …” the sharing shapers, the crushed peaches of new desires and constellations. Simian auras, and even a simple metamorphosis is owl-tuning in blue, sutured with wind. To each their own alarms of sudden clarity. In possession of marvelous weapons.
Nubile vehicles of wonder for each anomaly, feather-yielding without hesitations and led by paradoxical banter … Loom grows flowers and almost poisonous fruit for protection. Moon-raised and troubled by empty streets, blank pages and abundant aching.
She is sublime unsettling abandoned and tyrannical hesitation at the center of a dream, not the appearance of things, the utter negation. For the honey of things. The marvelous irritation. The adamant glow of skin and bones, the precise incendiary device of a vulnerable evening touché.
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 …” The page before this, is tempting for translation. It moves between never having spoken a word, a sign with revolving links, and the origins of your scent tearing apart whatever pause compels indecency with more than enough shades of contentment.
Maven-rags and gyroscope for future positions. Algebraic solutions over open wounds, to dazzle the loam humming softly to “I know Hibiscus makes the skin magnetic. A hammer enchants the bell… when I bleed. When I know you are listening. When I speak of ether and time, as brother and sister …” without using words, exactly, solar splinters, restructuring the sense of urgency. When Diogenes’ footprints led the hounds through the clothing of dusk …
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.
Dressed in heron and Saqqara, toward fireflies and the missing propellers in the bridal chamber. Surrounded by ghostly thrones, exquisitely long hindlegs … An autobiography hidden among crystals firing glances, hunting for images … Haunting weddings …
“I am both the brightness and the shadow around it. I am the aura of emeralds, firing …”
The wandering unknown appendages of those glittering mental possessions. Leading
dangerously to transparency. She passes this way through you … She does not pass, and yet … The obvious triangular dialogue – Tessellations collide, laying the afterbirth of the roaring the obvious triangular dialogue. Tessellations collide, laying the afterbirth of the roaring sound that light makes when it blossoms.
The flickering of your eyelids, a sphinx colony for the veil of disturbance.
The whimsy of only having two legs to stand on, held together by peripheral phosphenes resembling that solarization ceremony anointed by exile and other masks. Fawn hats in the dreaming field, La noche es la quema de agua… The wild ticking precedes the lighthouse, having always faced transparency, “Yours, who I tend, an image seeking words, seeking another image…”
You are the language dripping out of an image, sound of a primal likeness … Lunging out of nothing spoken …
The umbrella of her ribs opens an unfettered candelabra into a flash fire, seeking a solution to multiplicity and whereabouts. The tenderness of an audacious theft. Her arc is a dialogue with detonation, a signal stream, wearing candle wax in anagram, in bloom, for others, and piercing by throwing-stars and the fangs of a ghostly night. Subdued by poppies. A seal is placed in retrograde, in plural forms. A quicksilver of eerie medicinals.
Simplicity in the cruelty of listening, overhearing with cellular water, to signify an errant sorcery. It is the backstroke of lost civilizations toward a luxurious mane, to identify swimming upstream with invisible theater. The language of cranes provoking realignment of mirrors in moonlight and small childhoods in ground pollen smeared on your face combed for beauty like poisonous flowers. In preparation for night …
J. Karl Bogartte
SULFUR 