PATHOLOGY OF CLARITY/J. Karl Bogartte

PATHOLOGY OF CLARITY

A sleeping panorama scorching your personae, recklessly spinning, the earth, as it went past, only the footprints of others persist. Delicate lacerations, accelerated plumes, when crystal and fire augment clothing the bride for a sublime risk of nature. A perfect understanding of nature. The pollen of spontaneous ignition. A séance of manias…

“Allors, Master of Incendiary Dust!” With melting ice, the one and only the black orchid you possess with a searchlight and the blue dragon setting up shop in the cavern with the shadows of long and lost brides sputtering. With you the coalescence crosses the equinox with mist and a jaguar for loins, a world a part in playing, a shepherd fawning… That castle is the center of a geode.

In that space between you and the mirror, a slowly rotating constellation of unnatural design. Your reflection ignited. You see only yourself, or another time sequence… You see through, and for a few brief moments, you die, without waiting. You cannot remember that first momentous gesture… There is an image of it in chiaroscuro… A map of the city underneath, glazed over with a wealth of interruptions… In blue chalk. 

A night of fetish obstacles. A phantom body emblazoned with amorous trinkets, dressed in witchery and rumor. Tip-top reflections of water unconvinced of sunlight and fare-thee-wells, to follow a city of flapping mermaids and a round table of kiss-as-kiss-can-do in the dawn house, a window on fire with forever sighs. Sleeping in reverse. Emitting fog…

She is labial peddling in night blooming antiquity and offers serene content under carbon allotropes from a great distance away, often with antics slipping out of character. Sunbathing to vibrate and throwing mint the way one balances glassblowing with archery.

Your breathing was lunar and unforeseen, hibiscus and stone wrapped up in the corridor while Tremulous unleashes her slender gears… for exhaling light, for conjuring, heat of spinning and spell bound… Figure the hourglass permutations for disturbance and kindling under female quartz lighting fires in your sleep. Nailed by limpidus in fragrant délit by intoxication of the species.

Rumors of a bewildering equation with liquid inside, the solution of what was unheard of is now thrilling and burning fur and acrobatic with undulation and magnetic archways that polish the desert at first light with tongues and soft delicious words. To fill in the gaps…

Stained by the sun that glows at night, in any chamber, stained by emerging claws holding on to your body of leopard ink and breathing shadows and a roundabout fashion. That inexplicable moment of a dialectical eureka, “my love!” a masterful family portrait of bewildering characters.

Quite often pathology follows the whispering enigma of hypnotic animal dust.

You drag your mirrors with you, throwing reflections and primal neurons. The primary spring laddered with incantations and revealing but not quite nakedness. A cluster of humming, with distance and yearning, a dead-ringer for the altered empathy of unstable attraction. A blind man dreaming in braille. The unintended chimera of a lightning flood …

Alone there is always the entrance possessed by owls, the alternating current of being bound to a crossbow in the aura of flight and memorized for a backdrop lit up from behind. Your presence those limpid curtains terrorizing the mysteries no one can see without closing the eyes.

Sipping gender out of your hand, slipping into a backward glance, the last to leave a trace. Eroticism of endless mannerisms to freefall from sentry… and black tide lost in thought and illuminated by a crisscrossing of sudden lines randomly inserted, according to desire… Like a dreaming vampire from Macedonia…

Some are awkward in approach, others deny it while evading capture. A delightful traveler, a great mirage leaving trails of pollen for gyroscopic communication and believe-it-or-not obsessions. You touch what isn’t there, in space, purrs in the mind… 

Clavicule into a double-cross, to conspire with happenstance. From the stone, intuition and troublesome luminosity. From the nearness of a backward glance, poured into the hardness of stone. It is often visible and cradles the face. One kiss and the world explodes.

You are flint-eyed opal in the loving black, night ricochet, clamor, in the depth of darkest moist, black fur of a starry night, somnambulance stroking fire. “I am presence not often denied, I am the convulsive about-face, denied, the double compulsion, cracked open, accepting thereabouts in the long flowering bodied gash-of-a-night-gushing-about-to-be-seen? As your first roulette wheel into the “I am night flowing … I touch you, animal, for light…”

J. Karl Bogartte

J. Karl Bogartte

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