What Beauty Kills To Live/ J. Karl Bogartte

What Beauty Kills To Live

Leaving by mimicry, and vague arrival. The Dwellers of Wherewithal exist as upright foreshadowing, when the horizon is reversed. Becomes your body, when your body is transparent, ambedo of intrinsic gathering. Horizontal anesthetic for hand mirrors for Indio chimes and face pollen ricochet through birdlike rendering.

The key to the exit is the scent of a four-sided Eleusian reflection, opened by your mouth and formed into a language of moth echoes slipping through the cracks. Eios and Helios bridging the gap for the Cabinet of Selene, the four-side octave. Liquid poured into talismans of diverse nature while “I am antelope bright in mercurius translation, I am dawn quake for humorous numismatic design. I am melting muse tantrum, I evolve with fondling. I go down…”

She replaces the words when pulling fog out of your etherized shape forming a salt-worthy victim of sublime proportions. Her shoulder blades bring down the house…

You are mesmerized by the mechanics of her hind legs, coal-fired and bilingual and solarized for great escapes. The sewing machine reaches outward with subconscious attraction as she leans forward emerging in circles with cross-fire distinctions. Pinpointing for a 4th dimensional antidote.

… rising, not falling, from a great height, across a central tenet, caught in a downpour of noctambules and shady mares ambling in the outskirts. A dancing monkey, the Morning Star, when Phaedra sleeps and the hummingbird sips, and subliminal entreaties encourage promiscuous reflections where mirrors are clouded. The source of innocence. What beauty lives to kill, loves to… kills to live… Silence.

Desert dwellers painted for motives in the center of night as it is known and understood, a duration of forked entrances and soft moans known only to the most fragile of creatures. Glass scattered in statues for the flight of glowing insects with nuptials of waves and particles flooding the shore. Presence either sudden or slowly arriving promontories in the middle of things. The object takes precedence. Adoration is obvious. The alias does not translate. Yet, it spins…

In the age-old room of sighs, the signs and messages passing through, the enchanted objects of desire conspire and river, the undulating snakes light up the sudden tree … even when you open your eyes. It is unmistakable. Even shadows gasp. 

The revolving costume of Caput Algol the elder, travels by reflection and gyroscope. Light escapes. The golden hour swings by ambidextrous as anything. The lopsided pendulum with its endless children playing the secret games, the “why does Tecolote emulate the three-headed star system of Cat’s Cradle, and always fly away?” or “what is the blindman’s bluff?” fiddling under the spinning table …

An oddly shaped revolution of dreams unfolding precisely curved interpretations, the leopard key for a typewriter’s revenge and the romance of shadows. You find your reflections under every rock, while no one knows your name. There are feathers for that. Flagrant derelictions. There is something sudden about it all. There is lightning when you bleed. The languid eroticism of a magnifying glass undercover of twilight. 

J. Karl Bogartte 2021

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