J. Karl Bogartte Issue 7 2018-06-08T19:00:11+00:00

J. Karl Bogartte

An Evening Stroll

The only risk worth taking is eyelashes undercover and above the pedestal. A doorway of dervishing, brightly under layers of surrendering to your enemy, to surmount them… Take apart the proceedings…

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Shadow is a magical pet on the outskirts of window-like abruptness. She is the trick of ellipsis… to dissolve, memories of a tangled space untangling… a bookless tumult for an endless narrative…

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Dolorosa, fugitive lamp. Sudden phenomenon is the drapery of vexing in and out of bright feathers. Everything trembles at the drop of a hat. The wilderness leaping for eyes heavy with sap and thirst, flickering madly.

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The numbers are not avoidable, nor is the length of service any less amendable, to magnetic fields, secret gatherings. Egyptian powders, to take down for the heroine. The hark and hawkness, the multiple arcs. Incision of intimate knowledge about the nature of her listening-tongue and the insincere fingering.

*

The double-faced window of a highland arc, the fearless one, the Archeologist with larval-smoke and teetering, she gestured… She swallows and glows from within. Throws the first fire, with pitchfork urges. Troubles the lorn, translates into aspects of incendiary and babbling, coupling a shadow. You project accommodation with ambiguity and a penchant for heuristic pendulums. Desire is a flash fire clothed in dusk.

*

The beautiful daughter, the Amaryllis magnifying-glass. Soft spot of the antechamber. Her plume is named for an awkward reflection, while doorways take command of the tides and other explosive devices.

*

Pleasure is a paradoxical axon to the messengers of language. You have long since lowered your resistance to myelin milkweed and the splendid solace of a torch, bleeding a constellation whenever possible. For what unnamed street introduces a midnight stroll in phosphorus and synapses, and the word corona overrun with crying machines and sinister keys searching for hidden locks.

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In your hunting, desire spreads the quickness of sudden entrances. A fully defined weapon befriends the loss of innocence.

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Pouring the water, underground, forming a vase for the doorway. An exquisite object overwritten with ghostly allusions. She slips into the underground on stilts and loons. He is the memory of a lost civilization, replete with incomplete angles. That specific or missing page of the book where you appear…

*

A delayed message, a treatise of principle light, hallucinating for a dress of anemones and flight charts, nightly missions. Spells rooted inside for ancestral gestures powered by lighted glands and decisive numbers. Siren, signal, the nitro of an entrance, the golden dust of Anacaona…

*

Do not write those words, the ones regarding a taste of erasure or indecision. The distance between mind and sunlight is the amount of voices needed to fill the abyss. Your name is Incantation. Your shadow: Salamander. Reflection… Fire.

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To transfer by scent alone, is to salivate uncontrollably. Your own Outer Space is shaped by neurons of desire. The other, by means of intangible movements, river-like and sinister, that window with a painful and joyous glow… Your fingers inside the puma, stirring plasma… Your face is water, and stepping in deeper water and throats of growling alive in the lightning room. Mouths as close to touching as perfume is to a puzzling dream.

*

Image circles the garden, then tears a pathway through a wall, down there, beneath ambiguous statues. Where the need for emerald comes to light, battles with indigo and other spectres, collides with the enchanted wall of night. The earth emits sparks under your feet. Mind is allowed to follow a lit fuse outside of conscious levels. Where your skin of great birds unfolds a marvelous dialectic. The analogy of an assassin who loves you.

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The anti-muse of a muser arcs for dissenting above all. Maze hieroglyphs for Blindfold and recovers the brilliant image wrapped in archery and pathological precision. You channel a rainforest, braille a constellation, to ricochet in the most desirable fashion. You sleepwalk to uncover a mystery, without waking too soon…

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Each time night never ends, a touch of blood, a distant gasp. Desire always over-reaching, to escape into morning. You are raised out of incantation.

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The Jester moth and Orchid face comingle in conspiracy, weapons were used and eclipse was a devastating word. A she word more beautiful than a still-wrapped mummy with lightning for windows. A first-born word for shadow. You were stealth against whatever luxurious arc evaded each obscene luminosity. Language was breeding its children in secrecy. Silence was not a doorway…

*

Pinnacle was never alone, a bleeding ground for starlight, breeding, pale colorless flowers bordering a misfit embrace of optical synesthesia. The scent of a howl capitulates to sudden indigo. A game for children and other hybrids, a self-portrait against reasonable doubt. Throwing bones at the moon for ignition.

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The lost scripts are merciless intrusions, endgames on reversed reflections, bird-colored on aroused tables. Your means of seduction depend on the moon and it’s blue vials. Radical contortions as stealth as any trace of blood, or heavy breathing… Your ace of duplicity left behind every appearance, struggling with absence, so close, and it always amuses you, leaves you breathless…