A Phantom Pairing In The Night Hotel, image by J. Karl Bogartte
A Night That Never Ended…
Exile is a
distant river, a doorway of telepathic perturbations cracked open like agate of
amethyst… The way you gesture excitedly, antelope and annotated, one of Les
Silencieux throwing mirrors the way an eclipse shelters the unbearable, the
way… this way… her body in sleep resembles the lunatic petals of the first
sunlight, scattered by the wind to the four corners… Only that way.
*
A gown of
loons for a pedestal of exact science, a fresh scent caught in a trap, without
warning. Through the corridors of harsh projection, for an early morning
dalliance, the storm-jewelers are winning objects of delirium... Which IMAGE is
yours, when you hesitate, when you resist, or accept, when… light is a phantom
body, a memory of invisible movement. Not for the unworthy.
*
The calyx
of a holding pattern spreads Arrival in the middle of the night, Eureka dips
into desire. But there is fire before somnambulance and bright fingers. There
will be what is now your double reflection, spreading
all that I see in you, dear Luminous, your animal neurons wandering near
the tenuous side of consciousness. Your name is a doorway, your breath,
spinning another constellation. An unavoidable fuse.
*
Those books
on fire, the invisible ones. Psychosomatic and statue-colored. How near you
always are, between bodies, specific words… The entanglement of source codes,
dazzling signals. Heavy objects, so heavy they splinter, wounding. Real life
dazzling out of sabotage, and always the effortless sense of unavoidable
presence. Droning. Bursting. Snarling from the earth of the body, blackest
dirt, scraps of bone, stained, stars…
*
Raven
unfurls an eerie silver eye for a look of Panther who greens the window with
telepathic murmuration. Watching night,
arcing. Your message was a pedestal of arson, a violin face. You collide with a
mirror, re-directional as light in very large numbers. Pathos is weaponry.
Night, fur. Lamp skinned alive.
*
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…
*
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.
*
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.
*
Do not
write those words, the ones regarding a taste of failure 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.
*
Night is
the Rose of Cadeira and the plumb line of an orphic disguise.
*
She is
axolotl for the revenge of light, you are the spyglass of incandescent
messages, drawing exact locations for the secret desiring-machine, the awkward
cry of well placed pigments. It is how you spread your uneasy disasters, your
ancestry of small stones for amazing entrances…
—J. Karl
Bogartte
