J. Karl Bogartte Issue 8 2018-12-24T23:39:51+00:00

J. Karl Bogartte

Exiled by sorcery…

Hunger lies in wait, somnambulant among glittering equations, pouring lead into invisible bodies. Spelling out irresistible distances, turning tables. Time is the space between talons and the receiving presence. Séance of phantoms. Fire is a fragment of duration, an interrupted caress. The model posing edges a sequence of blurred distinctions, ermine disfiguring, exceeding savanted space. The word absence follows the trail of meridian and enters into a game of salacious detours, while the bell is wrung to summon night and her dedicated reflection. She is always blindfolded and led astray, for the chrysalis of rain.

*

She resembles a slurred cormorant dialect, but always on time, compelling synapsis to seek the tissue of time and look through with the golden orals of your blood, your aurora… The drone-givers flower against reason. The oils are reversed. The fatal reconciliation of evening statues above the Boulevard of Apparitions, expel the glass balls of a sudden storm. The mycelia of your eyes that stain the pleasurable countenance of dwelling… She uses a knife for punctuation.

*

Midnight slumbers into an open doorway. And the ambiguous terrace of the veil comes to assault your self-sense into stages of other scents. The distraction of crystal slipping into water. The knighthood of the wolf and the candelabra, for the cherished bridesmaid of signaling devices, bewildering motors varnishing the transmutation of light into Arabic… A forgery castled by memory from a distance still to be determined, along a trajectory more tarnished than a dubious signature. A handful of bees unraveling her mouth.

*

Beauty ransacked and outlined by gunpowder. The eager fountain-stone impregnated by fire. Shawl inhabited by particles, held together by scent and intoxication. A spinal column for the foyer of meteors and its shadowy figures, closer to X than to the release of prisoners. The ladders of cherished females. An illustrated gesture that attends the climb, and the fall, translating desire into words, slaying into objects, across. Acts of selfish pleasure, challenged by stilts, licking, consuming, fruit…

*

The obscure portrait without a scarf, filled with mercury and overflowing in the most desirable way… Always the loaded dice of an animal gaze spinning like a wheel, inter-rotating wheels moving in opposite directions… “Perhaps it is roulette? No, the gyroscope…” A letter introducing love, with a lighted scorpion, a knife in the ring… She is the pose and the chiaroscuro that defies summer rain, distinct locomotion hovering in trees, a history of science luring occult and shameless intrusions. Time divided by space equals the slumbering of a leopard conjuring the fields.

*

“The wind, leopard…” “The rain, assassin…” The book, sister to the bell-tower, gathering steam, remote from the forest, burnt by moonlight into a long-limbed calyx that spins around in circles, repeating your name, a coupling of numbers, kissing only water, savage computations. Shadowboxing with consciousness. Life is that breath of Jívaro dust blown into the face. A clockwork scent drawing blood, where indigo climbs into darkness. Crushed into light.

*

A night-bred conjuration, wrenching hands outside of the circle of resemblance, rubbing agitated gold into exterior forgeries. The grasping of apprehension, ancillary wishbone of distraught widows stepping down from empty thrones, flowing in parallel curves. The effect of an incendiary glance unhinging a careless assumption, dissecting the last word as a monolith for secret identities. With a violin (her face multiplied by sunlight) for mute alchemies, there is no shred of evidence on this side of mystery.

*

Light and dark, by distinction severed from kinship and wreck, struck a bargain between themselves, she crafting that which becomes her shimmer, and he more alive than his tales, risking presence. The heaviness of tusk, swinging by forest limbs, the thrust of a ship’s luminous bone, twice fount and clone. “Such awful weight astounds, sinking beyond relief. I come to you as carnal root and distraught awkward delight. I am against. I am negative and dangerous bright. I am your trance and diligent gate… I am dawn’s desperate breeding. And I am frightfully unfinished…”

*

The model is ruthless in apprehension, while her bearing forbids paradise, her fuse breeds multiple infractions. The misfortune of fair weather ending in a vague biography. Silence tempts the golden means and the jester’s card, releasing the glance from solitude, for a life inside sunlight. The glance, tricked by time into sovereign cabinets, chasing philters arranged by yearning, returns to a source of swanlike ecstasy. She rubs herself into countless arcs.

*

It remains in translation… Just after midnight the candle would announce your arrival, which coincides with the departure of the King, searching for his bride, the violence of the wind… which evokes the electromagnetic coil spinning out its fine shimmering, fleece-like, its dark red, sentinel-faced, rupturing, crucial wellspring. The skin covering her bones out of letters. Grinding out dew-colored webs… coal-fired… “There’s light among precious bones. Animal solutions. Dig deeper, my love…”

*

The acidity of lunar nitrates, your measure, disoriented navigation, severe as her blackened animal mouth dripping into yearning, a moving silk, waterfall desiring the measure of stone. There is only dusk following the travellers with their nets. A great roaring of astrological cabinets dragged by horses in mirrors witnessed by chimera in old films deteriorating in warehouses. A history of unruly kisses promising madness in ancient Greek letters reflecting the nearness of infinity.

*

An eerie stillness follows the suit of primary numbers, stained Florentine bridal veils, a precursor in the arts of spinning on a magnet to incite transparency, the harsh visiting, a tidal wave of nocturnal voices. The bodice of anti-matter elevates the hazardous pros and the rapier’s con of the prima donna eclipsing over the oval table, is conjured in your absence, old as light and twice as bright. Too bright to see, too dark to avoid. A devious desire for a rare and thoughtless object still arriving. “This terror of yours, does it reveal the locks of the gate flowing around this light, precious aurum, only the rose longing for the mouth?”

*

It is the howling that remembers its mouth, that brings paradox to the loaded chambers, the dice filmed in slow-motion, the eyes of love on the brink of landing. The crucible of tenderness, unremitting… A point of consciousness defines invisibility, defies gravity, and the Adored Mirror entering childhood with the aviator and the embalmer’s fabled daughter. The ravenous triangle. The duplicating recognition. The runaway theatre of dangerous attractions.

*

Silence, ocelot. Absence, ancillary reveal. To elude, emitting reflection on water, the body’s imprint, becoming landscape. Vague layers trampling symbols underfoot, chemise of latent meanings flourishing in the hidden street, the higher desert and the dancing gryphon scraping doors off the forest. Fog-beings at the Emu-threshold. Light-breathers. The aurora inhaled produced a sound that shook the foundations of eros, propelling the absent-minded wishbone into the harping body of a dream. A labyrinth of bathing spells prevails. A renegade and perpetual glow, wisely confounding.

*

Between form and being, desirable, forming crystal is activating invisible clay, the fission of a woman during an eclipse. Breathing in the emptiness of a stone, only to be cast… The silence enters you from behind, without mercy, the purity of sabotage in the hours of reciprocal projections. A word within each word, the replacement, and the cancelling out. Dragging a trembling glow out of dark spaces. Carpathian footsteps, seeing through night grillwork, watery light, a lapidary manifestation of an empty street, in the phase of accomplices, between the eyes and the lips, where “Shh… Don’t utter a word!” crosses paths with “It will always be dark for you, my charming pet…” and spitting tungsten.

*

There’s an idiot savant wrapped in the wings. The lamp is a curtain call of surprise endings, a fortune-teller’s demise and the howling of chance. Your blood is the taste of a winning number and a mercenary sense of living without the gravity of targets. “I am your precious barricade, and your singular urge. I am your instinct, teeth sinking into all that shimmers in your heavy warmth…”

*

Scattered with fire in the tallow, the victims in the crux compel the rain, breathing scarlet, settle scores, spin the wheels and the widow of a squall, her devastating passion skewered into an annular dance, a dream object in the street winding out of sight. The whining secret operations, numerous dark qualities, striking and unraveling. Mediator of surface ignited, always undressing and disordered around the milky substance of early Spring evenings. Hanging from the trees, she is a battlefield of glass.

*

“Turbulence, my love, makes your beauty eternal, like the sea when it sleeps, like the cistern when it overflows, like the moon…” when it litters the city with long-haired armatures, resembling distant relatives and sudden waifs, where the lock-maker’s dust on the window illuminates the riddles where natural elements gather to enfilade… where light waits in ambush for the morning to approach, like a wound that won’t dissuade the landscape from internal bleeding and vanishing.

*

Her body is silence hallucinating, sipping the hot wax of a feverish dive, swallowing the scent in pursuit of her image, your image, a ravaging in your hearsay and mirrored reversal. An initiated innocence distilled in the Calat of a witch-faced al ‘Ambra, fiddling with optics to arouse liquids from her swollen lips, swirling all the sighs in your mouth. Bursting eggs, seeds, starlight written in blood, in the body, for the sea… The simultaneous computations among strangers.