Pouring Liquids For Knowledge / J. Karl Bogartte

Pouring Liquids For Knowledge

Clarity is violence. Lucidity strikes beyond violence, where whispering exceeds in transparency. This does not make sense … It’s not simple the clash of prisms, like shock wave for a mirror. Even when reversed. Entering analogy. “It’s nothing, my love, only the sun…”

You eat infinity, the mortal combat, a needle in a bone serves twilight with ringing…

You shape yourself against and sundial into a window of night-infected petals. A bond you have with Sudden, who sleeps without herself. Only the sound of rubbing eyes together. For the center of desirable agate. A bed of lightning seizures. 

She is mist in the window, revealing synchonistic portraiture, and gravitation, and waving inspiral, spinning until the moment of coalescence, edging for a street scene. While the bones of the veil strike the courtyard, fuse the drip, drip, drip of essential spark, cowie the anonymous asylum nebula, embodied in amorphose tuningfork. Phantom senses… 

Oneirism for the street of the blind voyeur. The forbidden rose, the impossible trousseau bursting out of a shadow reflected through your body, on the inside, starred in absurd equations. A fierce debacle of communicating bodies, to hold up the glance for a timeless revolt. To bring them precious and back to life again…

Brought down and radiant, when Sable leads the assassin towards the Grand Intuition, a rising dream-like motive salutes the gamete veiling and unveiling. Always a consternation in the cabinets of lunar street scenes, the Alpha takes command and loses it, when slender ovum overturns with sabotage in the wilderness, when in a bell-chamber a visitor opens an appropriate door… What is known for those words, to suspect anything? Breathing on your face… 

Egress and anthracite hand and hand with the hoopoe facial expressions as tree rings and luminous valves. The clade espouse, the cry shamble “I bring to the table the witch cry and ensuing, the sudden wolf delirium of long lasting cabal of being taken with braille and coming backwards to light.”

Phosphenes not suspect to ruling defiance. A ruling water drapery, as ghost writers begin to vanish in creature delights, there you are pooling, a lamplight shimmer to bodily arc, being or not, mimicry in vague transition to undermine debacles in unison.

Vestiges of sight unseen … unwinding motor, motive for essential sabotage, ever changing facets, languid refusal to agree. As accepted stillness, exchanging purity for facing angles. How far away, how close, peaches for Midnight Aura, the unsightly one, the fruit of a doorway. Chasing reflections in each prearranged window. A new dimension in unison, waking up and downwards, your body settles into numerous and age-old appearances. A shadow rattling for Erzulie … shake, shake, shaking the easy give and taken, the altered gaze…  

Subversion bright and sweet pawing demonic capture, blue spreading moth like quicksilver into a keyless duration, locking the moment when sparks in the air converge … and she invisible is through a city hidden constellation for a windblown down stream. A ticket stamped… A dancing yeti for a command performance. With filigree of horns and rotating transom … still as yet … A dreaming sable steals your voice.

You lift her veil to become blind and aleatory, troubling the world of visitors who light candles for shuddering. Winding threads for an exit, leaving only for a sense of touch, a scandalous position, an unbearable bird-like embrace. The abandoned lace of a burning scaffold, the braille of your unquenchable fingers. The orchid’s grandmother impregnates the moon.

Anyone could have been. Seems a baffling partial of anything for ransome and trade, limited only by the color of who it was that disappeared one day and returned unknown.

The incandescence of an imaginary pedestrian winks at the silence of a shadow-crossing.

Infancy ignites the mainspring of seasonal discrepancies, more scissors-like and teetering than the innocence of unlikely conjunctions. The way you aelph in and out of spring-like contortions and convex models … the ones that shimmer and invite … the ones that pedestal for voyance, or the one that leads you through mayhem. Your model is lacteal with never-say-never analogies … still … one never knows what elegies pin-wheel their way through concise contracts and eerie messages spinning out of control. Your rib-cage is the Northern Lights.

J. Karl Bogartte 2020

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