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The Golden Alkali

The Golden Alkali



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Published by Bogartte
J. Karl Bogartte
Contemporary surrealist prose poems. A selection.
J. Karl Bogartte
Contemporary surrealist prose poems. A selection.

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Published by: Bogartte on May 31, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The Golden Alkali of Her Breath
Prose Poems
 J. Karl Bogartte
The Golden Alkali of Her Breath
“Knowledge, hunger and transparency were their major games, played with all the fierceness of their ancestors. But death, as we know it… death, for them, was never a natural occurrence,only the direct result of what they called: “the misfortune of an improper move.” 
The most arrogant of dreams, if dreams can be arrogant, or powerful and detached, enterinto language by the lucidity of their proximity to distant mysteries, to the imagery andmagical arts of restlessness; often there were astonishing animals taking blood from yourbright and eager spirit, while the scent of killing filled the air with singing...
“Precious anomaly, I adore the grappling of your feverish quest for tenderness in the mouth of the sleeping beast, eluded by roses and large numbers...” 
*The sudden astrology of your face rubbing frantically against the glass, in the field wherethe warmth of expression and sinew meets the isolation of stone spreading sparks in every direction... where there was once an architectural resonance there is now the watery stimulus of dreams and the
sign beckoning with the language of arousal made visible...She offers her face, and you release fireflies inside, in the raging of that silence only momentsbefore a storm. You swim in her expression of thirst, rescuing that prison of light, that edgeof inkling and undeniable aberration. Her blood is clairvoyant. Her eyes, desperate.*Reindeer phantoms leading the way, in whose eyes could be found those aboriginal flowersgrowing luxuriant locks of auburn and sunlight, and sepia-inhabited group portraits wandering in the forest of exquisite corpses and dressmaker’s dummies, where identity andgender infuse the curious gamelans of disorientation. The aurora howls for your approval;your pose is exactly the reverse of what is always expected: deep in the gamble there arethoughts of you in the otherness of those who give birth its venerable shape. The river thatfollows her face is threaded with the gold of striking gestures, amorphous tropisms, sinister jetties... You change places with the fountain that sees you. Your smile is unfinished...
*Springtime is an obscure alphabet for the bathing bodies swimming through night, andhaunted by the intersection of sudden dreams that detach the strangers from their phantoms, without a scent or trace of hemlock, impeded only by your refusal to sever the black mirrorfrom its bride. While she sleeps, conspiracies undermine the brightness of unnatural acts.Only the sublimely hidden recalls the necessity of a lost gesture, an intimate touch. She isplaying, perhaps dreaming of her death, or her birth, with a
vengeance comparableonly to the phases of the moon...*She spreads her body of dark ages and splendor in the chromatic radiation of crystals thatreflect the cities into which are poured the marvelous manias that never fail to awaken thepoppies, the black ones, for the voyage home, and the sinister red anemone with thepoisoned eyelids, for the winter solstice. She draws the fluids out of your dreams, like onebesieged by desires of broken Flemish porcelain. Silence was her Mercurochrome, or hertwin sister... She loved you because of your despair.* Your messages, filled with the quartz of undeniable yearning, follow the patterns of flightdesignated by imaginary acts of paranoia and displacement, while the mind and body of grazing triangles places the double solstice on the stone of primitive fears. Lightning conjuresthe future when struck on the stone of another’s ironic gaze. Love is the conjuration,becoming the antidote, of madmen and witches:
“She loves me light, she loves me dark, she loves me there, she loves me here, she is the window, she is the fuse, she is the claw...” 
 At noon youare the turning of the tale, and the clock stopped, spinning for fire.*She is etched into the surface: when dark is bright as water, and a grooming bridle, vicuñaof illustrious vertigo, eyes that betray irony in unsettling dreams, unfinished conversationshaping the landscape, a memory of inconceivable feathers growing beautifully out of rottingtrees, hidden meanings that dissolve the distance between opposing movements, slow  wrenching of perceptive gears, light-burnishing altimeter, silent gatling of pollen, veil of thehive, sadistic alchemy powered by a handful of eggs, the dust of sienna in immaculate edgesthat defy gravity, perfume of pale thirst, arc of the dive that opens the doorway of the city...*The anvil of striking desires into throwing knives at questionable beauty, foreshadows themovement of hovering shadows divided into the conquests of the hunter when moonlightsheds its body, clawing at blissful accidents. Aimless steps are taken for the privileges of themantis playing. She releases the glow from her glands, setting up watchtowers that summonthe violins of dubious suitors and other perfectly symmetrical bowls used for irritating

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