Welcome to Scribd, the world's digital library. Read, publish, and share books and documents. See more
Standard view
Full view
of .
Save to My Library
Look up keyword
Like this
0 of .
Results for:
No results containing your search query
P. 1
In this place there is fear of fading...

In this place there is fear of fading...

Ratings: (0)|Views: 19 |Likes:
Published by J Karl Bogartte
Structures of consciousness, and unsettling movement, of language, being, desire.
Structures of consciousness, and unsettling movement, of language, being, desire.

More info:

Published by: J Karl Bogartte on May 03, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


Read on Scribd mobile: iPhone, iPad and Android.
download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
See more
See less





 Anne Ethuin - Anna De Cleves Y Quasimodo
In this place there is a fear of fading, and under these leaves there is the mint of insomnia, when it becomes unstable and brilliant and passes through walls littered withfeathers and promiscuous daughters with beautiful voices.*Lovers are more dangerous even than murderers. An engaging kiss between assassins, a sweet-tasting poison...*The ravaged Arabic script of her smile was the color of a glass globe from Galicia spunfrom the friction of lace encrypted with milkweed pods, panting on the verge of euphoria.Her fingers seduce the mathematics of sorrow when it follows the wolves on the scent of blood... and you could hear her motors edging into sync with the moon’s rotation. Her body  was the echo of a statue, and the bones of sleep rattled with voices and recurring spells. Sheleft a coat of arms singing sweetly...* Your movements are not sacred in the wind of crystal, but receding effortlessly in theghost of a chance, a seducing machine covered in desires, midnights and lost civilizations. Your psychology is imaginary...*The solace of the hunt, scent of the sense that seeing takes your eyes through the forest,and through the city walls, fire of the kill, virtues of a higher order of gravity...*Grace is the art of luring ravenous dogs into a state of springtime.*Desire is the glow of bathing lunatics. Starlight is the liquid used to power a whispering machine. Humming is the music of a forest moving in unison with your eyes.*The terrain is always vague when the shadow defends itself with its reflection lit up in thestream, against random intrusions of a spectral nature. It is the aorta of ancient mumbling hooked up and spliced into the grandiose symmetry of a disheveled and eternally feminineplumb line spinning out of control and miles off center...
* A slip of the tongue and the hummingbird’s empty throne make the acquaintance of the word
 which in turn adopts the phrase:
“I am closest to you when we are furthest apart,” 
and together they follow the anxious doorway that leads far out of the city, where travelersalways meet, alone and abandoned with only their mysteries to guide them... and when thesun bleeds out of the dampness of the earth, like pale limbs entwined and exhausted, they allpause in their own fashion to reflect not upon themselves but on the white wolves in thegarden shivering like mist, in the mirror hiding your face.*The wind allows the layers to shift with blinding speed, while the black powder of thebride’s maid is filtered and separated into as many colors as are necessary to keep the Brideherself pierced with cruel and wondrous charms. Her pleasure is impossible truth in thecharred brightness of a starless ceremony rift with barbaric purity.* A secret society is composed of the anxious moments preceding a checkmate, when greatbirds resemble great walls of glass through which can be seen the sun laying its eggs in a very dark room. Your whispering is like a vessel from the 13th century...*To release the bones from endless calculations, it is necessary to bathe in darkness. Tograsp the meaning of attraction, it is useless without an act of violence to shape it, and give itmovement, immediacy, vertigo. She is burnt into the surface of the water, and moves outsideof her image.*Destiny is the movement of fine linen around the circumference of a gargoyletransfigured by nocturnal emissions and joyous reunions.*The author is pieced together with sand and imaginary conjunctions. You greet her withenchanted angles and remorseless endearments. She ignores you and denies the shape of yourvoice, and yet, with a precision known only to the most intelligent of the species, she offersyou the ill-fated costume of speaking in her presence. Your joy is surrounded by reindeer.

You're Reading a Free Preview

/*********** DO NOT ALTER ANYTHING BELOW THIS LINE ! ************/ var s_code=s.t();if(s_code)document.write(s_code)//-->