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Mirror of Perception

Mirror of Perception

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Published by Bogartte
Selections from SECRET GAMES, the 2nd book in a trilogy of surrealist prose poems, by J. Karl Bogartte.
Selections from SECRET GAMES, the 2nd book in a trilogy of surrealist prose poems, by J. Karl Bogartte.

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Published by: Bogartte on Jul 05, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The Bathing of the Bride
“Sight does not perceive any visible object unless there exists in the object some light, which theobject possesses of itself or which radiates upon it from another object.” Ibn al-Haytham
It is not so much the cylindrical aspect of your gaze that always tempts thesteady bombardment of irascible characters, always tempting, always playing the most unsettling tricks
in full view
, but rather, or strangelyanalogous to, the very thought of that woman whose only justification for  being in the presence of memory are the sparks left powdered on the edgesof things when she leaves. The knife blade knows your pleasure better thananyone. Her smile: a reckless gamble.Springtime is an obscure alphabet for the bathing bodies swimmingthrough night, and haunted by the intersection of sudden dreams that detachthe strangers from their phantoms, without a scent or trace of hemlock,impeded only by your refusal to sever the black mirror from its bride. Whileshe sleeps, conspiracies undermine the brightness of unnatural acts. Only thesublimely hidden recalls the necessity of a lost gesture, an intimate touch.She is playing, perhaps dreaming of her death, or her birth, with
comparable only to the phases of the moon…*She spreads her body of dark ages and splendor in the physical radiation of crystals that reflect the cities into which are poured the marvelous maniasthat never fail to awaken the poppies, the black ones, for the voyage home,and the sinister red anemone with the poisoned eyelids, for the winter solstice. She draws the fluids out of your dreams, like one besieged bydesires of broken Flemish porcelain. Silence was her Mercurochrome, or her twin sister... She loved you because of your despair.
 For reasons of edification, and a willingness to beguile, nonetheless, it isalways necessary to blindfold the dreamer, should the ruse perpetrated uponan unsuspecting accomplice wake him ahead of time. The experiments arealways successful, regardless of the outcome... Camouflage is everything.The pure fruit of an emergency landing, is a last ditch effort, a glowinghunger strung up by its ankles from the rafters, and impersonating thesputtering compass when it loses all sense of direction, kneels and licks your  precious feet... then dashes off, exhilarated and beside itself. There is humor in the word: “precious.” The fruit is a night-light for the children who walk in their sleep––and therefore, the night is a narcissistic diversion... an act of irony that makes for intimate conversation between total strangers, whenhidden meanings are always appreciated... when no one is present.In the distant forest there are waterfalls that whisper your name, and brushup against you, sometimes becoming you when you are distracted and takenunawares. Shadows are always delivering startling messages that, when readfrom behind, illuminate the background that becomes the foreground, like astudied veil, remote and yet strangely familiar. The filigree is a burning treelike a long forgotten ancestor. The fire, soft and alien, aligns its brightcubicles in triangles of dusk, one upon the other. It is common knowledgethat the First Matter of discontent is
the water that lives,
and it unravels thesolace that grinds up the desperate landscape that long ago became luminouswith the sense of imaginary beings meeting for the very first time––beforethey became real. She does not hesitate and releases her red pearl, while he,delirious with fog, conjures up the spirit of forbidden ceremonies. Areflection of thirst is offered, like a spell...*Sometimes it appears to be a shroud of soft moaning, the angle of her departure... a plurality of endless delays... and at other times, there isviolence in the sheer hissing of midnights’ pulsating larvae, whenannouncing the secret wedding, the solar wing of attraction and repulsion. Inspite of her silence, the motor of dreams continues unabated.
 The iris opens and closes like a Bird of Paradise struggling with archaic pigments of light. She touches the hand of the dramaturge, who begins tofade and, out of remorseless habit, reattaches himself to the rain thatenchants the window of her predilections. Under the incandescent stones of the horizon, a reversal of roles takes place between the raven and the wolf,when a slip of the tongue prevails, a marvelous shade of emerald is climbingout of the furnace made of claws and feathers, and a predatory shape unfoldsin the act of flying, in place, unattended and daring... the singular object of afanciful theory of consciousness. Marvelous weapons burning bright...In each resistance to whatever would seem, even in the slightest, to betraythe pursuit of a sense of brightness unlike any other, the anarchy of the bridge-tender is elevated to the level of a truly magisterial wonderment. Theslow decay of the walls of knowledge, at this point in time, is captured in thevarnish that indicates a high degree of gold-making refinement, and like the portrait of an exceptional woman, or a mystery, exposes a flaw in the fabricof time. An inner glow that is cast far and wide... Her face becomes ashimmering reflection of all that is unknown in the spark that indicates theexact center between one and the other, like an immense clearing lit up by astorm. Between each scapula, a loving interlude in the garden of electricalcurrents.When the laws of nature intercede on her behalf, footprints are sentscurrying in every direction, and when the coordinates mimic the exactmeasurements needed to trigger the alchemical vessels that seduce theweather, that whir and hum like simian lanterns held up to warn of impending dangers and invisible locks, she enters the forest from behind,where the spirits speak only Spanish and the nights are without equal. It isnecessary to harness these wonders. The minerals of distraction... Moleculesof light.
When she places her hand on the left side, only the brightness of a sudden recognition prevails. When her hair accidently flounders in your eyes, she is the invisible word of a transparent body. Realities pass throughthat word on the way to your mouth...

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