J. Karl Bogartte/ Selection

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 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 theater. 

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… 

Artwork by : J. Karl Bogartte

She is spinal between the assassin and the élan vital of primary secrets, she is Luminous or Moth, nearly twins, microscope and dust. Never the same species, with each gathering and bewildering. And that is lunacy, movement of a very delicate nature. Stealthy models whispering between others, secreting the gaze of striking flint, bloodied into raw shapes of ultimate longing. Spiderweb of your orchid mouth. Changing permanently with what is never lost, transparent, but revealing…  

Exclamation for a sentry, dividing time with the very first morning dew, permutations of illicit knowledge, hunger, clairvoyant petulance. Not the same as, but is… “Known only by your absence…”  

Unsettled silver, breaking into a mirror. Not to see but entering into, wind-salt and crystal, aroused and raw diligence. Bioluminescence for reach, desire for entrance, basalt in resuscitation, breathless for the demanding sex of your eyes.

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 past, while the sirens paused in midair to breed…

J. Karl Bogartte  

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