In preparation for night…

Anguish is bliss for the desire of a shadow, a key screwing into your lock without interruption. What beginning is there that never arrives, having passed unnoticed, somewhere else. Between your ribs the Bird of Paradise releases its great window…

A wayward archery deceives a bird-like lamp, your trebling twinge, swimming upstream for glowing. She bleeds profusely, and that is the chanterelle at night, cold, damp and visionary.

Above “your breath staining glass” there is erasure and sabotage, the resistance, of light and shadow to tincture the hummingbird contest. To doorway the flower-vows. Below there are “marsupials for acrobatics of appearance” and “recovering fuses” to scintillating visage.

Entangled with each hypothetical dive, your arc was more overladen than dissolved, led by shifting dwarves of amorous beauty. You are never known by name, forked by fathoms and galvanized in a golden age to loupe with arcane messages, pressed by sunflowers. An escapee is always worth the weight of gems stuffed into a corpse. Dreaming outside of a dream…

Random asylums are the codes of gendering mint, fused and dangerous, loving, and however, distance from sight is more illusion than certainty. Shrapnel decisions. Before sunlight is measured, there are tusks to knowledge and tiptoe heisting. Luminous bodies under fire. Bright incantations standing out at night, shivering orchids red with plasma and eager interruptions. The awkward inclusions of the sorcerers, the scent of lightning.

The dream-shaped snake dancer canticles into fields of bright rain, you shadow the expectations of sight unseen. She wills you into glancing. Night-calls. Only sucking sounds and murmuring. Slow clicking drops. High treason for animal salutations and cryptic moaning. It is the form she takes to finely scent and lastly undermine the analogies of hesitation.

Mirror gazing with darkness seeking points of light, raising disequilibrium, the beautiful turmoil, the shattered utterance catapulting into a glimpse of unknown origin. The form of Solace ignites the rain.

Memory alters reflections of a sudden gesture, sun burning stone into an incandescent body looming in monkey shines and antic take downs. Crack the whip with Chinese whispers, a deadman pinned to Jacob’s Ladder… with owl claws and purring toys. There is greatness in trembling, in the fog, beneath wings. Enter by passing through Ibis for a filial catapult.

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…

The grid-dismantling and sapphic lamping and fusions in the flowering gardens of Yemen, the fire-stained faces projecting the finest lace and sable, blackest illuminations like splendid clues spinning awe-shaped sun-ravaged evening gowns into the most fanciful encounters. Listen to your skin of hysterical windchimes, your uninterrupted schisms, those turbulent mirrors in your wake. Thus, armed and dangerous…

A tincture face dragged out of dramaturge for frolicking knives and blissful daughters, in roundabout fashion, to kill the King and Queen for desire… For fireflies and spinning thrones, for the dazzling feathers of the whirlwind.

The novelty of stealth is fraught with reindeer and long flights, doors of enchanted ambushes, taking each outpost undercover of silent nights. Sirens pointing, the always unsettling interruption. The grand pitchfork of emerging round-abouts. Phantom bodies, phantom optics growing wild in the seed-beds of aurora borealis. Cherished aurora of persistent humming.

Nowhere in the world, but stars in the mud, sliding chimes of a vague fire. Even the bones are filthy with kisses, beautiful bones, beautiful kisses…