“A night left swinging, a night suspended.” -Jean-Louis Bédouin

An aleph of a night and its sea-worthy mother, bright as ether for this intrusive circulation of the watcher's gate singing to its costumes, and she is most agreeable: it is in the prowling, and a coven in the prowling, in the dust, accidental and black as a wedding hung from the apex of a triangle and rendered beautiful as light and the amorous tortures. She crouches to shape those loving glances trickling in by the psyche-driven chisels and ravenous clefts of dark gowns. She is inviolate, to be seen and entered only in the dark. A molecular fabric of igneous illusion glittering in the doorway... but she adores the clarity of your absence. The magic is in the sudden hesitations, sublime and feverish, and anointed with the candlemaking craft of aroused promontories. Agate claws its way out of the light, a nameless kiss. * You enter sleep through the harbor, and become a ghostly presence, luminous veins, mutable and immutable seed cluster, and your eyes an outward quiver of waking in the opposite direction, in the middle of the night secreting transparency like beautiful sighs, or excited keys inside ancient locks... You are an ambiguous gesture, a harsh and thoughtful fire... a breath making love to fire in the depths of the earth. Bur she is this way even in the aftermath. A doorway that intervenes. Reflections in progress... * “The ravens are abrasive like us”, she spoke in her rapture of fine-tuning, a vast and effortless sigh, with striations of an interior exhumation, ground up with bone, cinnabar and premonitions–“let them eat us after licking their weapons...” The fierce, indignant trickster filled with gold, departing at the speed of light, entering inward... * You part the silkworms of her presence, when she dies for others the way light spins counterclockwise out of the missing armor, turning on the ledge of consciousness, a virgincolored gyroscope, bursting in the Far East, on a street of weavers, beneath the moon and other acts of violence, softly moaning, sparkling on the surface and grinding to a halt... for your hands... a passionate fixation... where the pigments of desire charge up the brightest of nights, in a slender essence, curving in the air of bright germination, beneath the sea for stars, (those nacreous spindles) on the red table of conjuring, in the wolf coat, for the sister of the she in the door of the jackal casting spells for shadows.

* Shadow upon shadow, Statue to stature, propitious arcs and traumatic entrances, purebred flowers of projection that never cease to amaze and beguile the canine ramparts that bring you face to face with the ambidextrous shape of calculated risk, the hiss of navigational charts, bride-like analogies in the interpreter’s sense of exhaustion, carried by messengers in those bright and warm cobalt bottles resembling the hidden lake of an evening of anguish. She was a globe of mercury set spinning for the axis of an Egyptian husk, tormented in your eyes by fountains. * On the street of metamorphosis, in the glow of a dark and ornate fire drawing blood-lines like rubies lit up from behind, through which her bones can be held shimmering like rain: a landscape breathing in and out again, and wise in the animal dashing out of her language, that magnetic storm central to the bathing of beauty and the dark locomotive. The lurid finesse of a continuing lapse. Canal of sorrowful milk. Lantern dust. The book opens a shawl filled with murmuring and conspiracies, rigging the spores of a priestess clock. Automatic weapon... * When she distracts with equestrian suns and clairvoyant daughters, from one myth and insinuation to the next, the heavy lead of her tongue tastes of the night-layered fields, sinuous and lured out of hiding, and bright like certain crucial aspects of sun-filtered blood (changing places with a wild and pleasurable spirit) when it spills the cold, aching aura of a loping arrival. The hyacinth that rivals the starlight that starts the fire and draws you closer to the welding grate and grappling roots of anointed presence. She is groomed and rearranged according to the shards, shale and tarn of the insolent corpse, the graceful swimmer who shapes the hour of your defacing... sprawled beneath the radar, a sputtering flare of unreason. * Who comes and goes by spreading light according to desire? Who resides in their own absence more impending than a crucible of mist, more naked than water? A feather pulled from sight to announce the placement of ghost flowers in the elk’s name, the Woo-et, and Hoische, the eh’Halume and other elemental hazards of each life sharing the same shadow, speaking in tongues... When she comes apart beneath the lamps and dazzling shores, a shameless digging in the shallows, there are swift paws enhanced in hermetic tapping according to the fires in the wake, and there lays darker beneath the dream, much deeper than an ordinary conversation between lovers and dark rivals. Diving vessels form the horizon, pulling up the sea for a silvering pathology. She places her honey according to the planets, in careless disarray.

* The eye shadow of an intricate movement between the sparks of an animal feast and the portrait of some long forgotten fatalism, shimmering in the entreaties of an empty room... The lost devices of a barely human landscape pass in amorous devotion, bird-like and heavylidded through your chest. There are parapets for your fusion, spell-binding gifts, so unlike yourself, and as alien as time itself... The sense of yourself is felt by eons of misplaced objects fumbling in twilight. Meanwhile, pollen is dripping from open mouths, the color of an apparition... * In the manner of departures, only the multiplication of space precedes you like a glove, and wanders off aimlessly in search of it’s hand, the memory of a single touch forming priceless solutions held together by the breathing gears of an endless catapult, an Iron Maiden resembling a Spanish galleon lost at sea, in the springtime of your innocence. Love is most memorable when it extinguishes the light, caressing statues, starting fires... * Guarded by a sense of hidden streams that study your movements with the sudden grace of a passionate déjà vu filled with pearls of vermillion, and nightly gears, the fur-covered Lady’s revenge upon the skepticism of the Evening Primrose (those errant knights of the round table) hatching it’s brilliantly oval eggs for the ermine of a sinister and rebellious landscape, was surely a form of love, blind as rain. But you are the envoy of her exultation, the thread of light. You are both sides of the window, and not only in her presence... * Because of the fountain that makes a weapon out of desire, restless and cruel as an aura, it was with pleasure that she forced upon you the undeniable fascination of the glass slipper as red and vague as a dream, and then filled you with the absence of finality. Her motors were without equal, and far more forgiving than fog planted in the forest of your power. Desire is the one without wings, dismantling the precipice. * “I adore you more than life, when your shadow usurps the deserted mirror, with a nakedness more superior than madness, a silken gown from Macedonia loaded with an owl’s voice, your breath among pines, a golden sap...” * The codes of escape reverse their direction and come winding back to you as an irreversible fusion of tuning forks and centuries old streets named after famous calligraphers.

The roots of language in the hive of sound, and “there is always the sting of your fingers tormenting my dreams...” You will find it coming true. * The abyss in the center of the mist, where you remember when you died and became yourself, among all the others, who reflect you and pass through the sense of yourself becoming real and visible, where no one else lives, where no one else dares to enter... Where no one else believes in that darkness you remember so well, as the greatest source of pleasure. * There are spirits in the lighted areas of the desert at night, where the natural elements of hunger and insomnia were all gathered for the coronation of La Grande Glazier, whose grandmother is still as regal as she was in the beginning, and still as indifferent to the joys of your suffering as she pretends to be, in the 3rd hour of the 4th position of indecent irony, hidden in the glass, igniting mirrored images in that desert of absolute purity... She will lead you always to the gate, and through the river that raises the staircase to the level of the mirage that is your flesh – but the gate, the savagery of the open gate, will always find you when no one else does, and burn the nape of your neck with incredible miracles... The gate through which can be seen the first ravishing of beauty crawling out of the storm. * “I am the arcade of sand, and the newest theories of color that provoke the obscure, the summoning obscure and the tables of reckoning, to dismantle the center of your unending circle, in the wedding night of the insects. I will command your obedience to the superior water of my invisibility, and release the breathing motor of your spells cast far and wide, night circulating among fugitives, for light, breeding in doorways...” * The fortune-teller and the fables of a ruthless desire, monoliths in the antechamber brooding over the nonsense of innocence, the innocence and curse of transparency, your lovers, bright chemicals that inject the future into your landscape, where the purification of flight follows each brilliant evasion, each fluid stone, and ceremonial robe through the doorways, arches and black layers of mica that coalesce in the garden like pyramids of humor. The inventor of unnatural dimensions casts an ominous glow, to disrobe the dance of a breathless forge. The missing targets of Oedipus. No myth that follows suit... * The widow and her reflection with the navigator and his sister. The oasis of identity. The grand pose that defies gravity... At dusk she is a frustrating hourglass of anonymous signatures inside the bird-covered filigree of lightning shaped by thirst and formed into a

feverish clay that starts itself on fire. At dawn, she is nowhere to be found – only her ashes remain, only that thirst as lovely and soothing as anything in nature. Shadows pass through her like wolves. The whole universe pooling with saliva from her mouth when she dreams... * She merges with your frustration for the piano of lost civilizations, and drops the mythical handkerchief like a black moth, the anesthetic of consciousness. She is the object stepping outside of herself, and becomes for you the control panel of magnetic dispersion. You are ruthless about kissing her hand... The orchid dreams of a self-portrait that multiplies, and then devours the bony structure of a backward glance, the spirit of longing shadows. * There is glistening foam in the chrysalis of the phoenix, rocking back and forth, on maternal instincts of venom buzzing beneath the auburn tendencies of pure motive: it is the hour of her silence, when she impregnates the hive, leaving you exhausted and blind, between language and desire, like the thorns of a single rose unraveling the threads of an illtimed landing. The pilot in the mirror of the owl unlocks the caress of a previous, long adored reflection, tearing up the fields of equilibrium, planting nights in delirium. * When the fire of your self image precedes you, by many years, by hook or by crook, when you have passed this way through the fields of a brash unreasoning, dipped in the stone of archaic words brightened even darker with neurons and flickering eyelids, tender eclipses, whispering like fading rooms in the mystery and splendor of unorthodox gestures; when you are preceded by these volatile roots, the earth comes swiftly to you from the fertility of your rites, heartless as the moon. * “Permutations of my eyes hanging from trees, ready to flower, a glance out of myself. I live in the manikins’ shadow, with wild eyes and ancient murmurs... I occult my tremors and the shifting of my rings and grinding valleys. I slip past sentries with invisible threads. I am the scent of life, twin of the sharpest blade...” * The distance that separates the machinery of longing and the sand of thoughts, taunts the world into equal parts dismay and loss of consciousness. A city of sleepwalkers rises out of the embers... *

The glass of her face does not seem to be the slaughter of the veil that arrives in the woods at night, and does not pursue the beginning of each and every tale that begins again, but instead, and because of the rushing of some mad stranger forward through the mirror of a another eclipse-shaped reflection other than the one that follows you, she expires for you through a country very distant from the rest, where the enchanted scarf of the heroine bursts into flames in the eleventh hour, when pebbles speak candidly of true love and bitter enemies, as the evening rendezvous corrupts the library burning in the vessels of the twofaced palace reclining in all her nakedness. Her shoes are spinning. The witches are hunting. The lace-maker sleeps past the hour of perfection. * In the careless and rabid frenzy of her delicate scent, she does not move in the multiplication of her senses, but for you she is heated to the point of transparency, for the sudden loss of color that is instantaneous and grievous, panting out of molecules, driven by thirst, hollowed out, and obsessively touched, and retouched again, from one animal element and meridian to another, one bridal pagan divining-rod to the other, one century to the next, she is releasing in one fell-swoop the forest from the trees. “I am the cult of ruby for your throat, brighter than the whirlwind that secures you to your precedence. I am your calligraphy of dreamless falconry. The sphinx of moonlight in blood.” * “Sweet dreams, Genoa, season of clairvoyance.” In the bell of the acrobats, the long black dresses take flight down the long black halls of a wish. The foreseeable hovering of a double portrait, when you are facing inward, meets you half way. A warm street of veils surrounds the shipwreck of stars in the haphazard embryos of a distant encounter. She is always a sense and séance of transparent desecration, a handful of gold in search of a riverbed. * Rising above the sea with all the attraction of miniature vanishing points like vivid seeds on the verge of scattering, you were always aware of the friction between darkness and desire when they pass through each other, leaving deeply structured hesitations, vague interiors, and invisible threads that speak to each other with the most tantalizing words... defying gravity and grappling with a more vicious intimacy. The spell-shaper and the cryptologist exchange places, becoming arcane, polishing their facets on the table of imaginary space. Incendiary motors that fill in your blanks. * It is for your intricate presence, and for the power that is humming inside your image, that the shape of darkness, with its turrets and caves, is touched by blind chimeras that form your words, and the spirits that inhabit them. It is a debacle of smoke screens and vaguely androgynous frontispieces, spinning with knife dances and glowing burials. “Kiss me, Genoa...” was all she could fill the room with. The contract was signed. The roar of glances

became storms. “Am I your pleasure, or the bride that precurses the rich agony of such pleasure? I am the missing link, I am the planting...” * In the psychological mirror of erotic divergence, where Xs and amusing gestures are glowing in the aura-shaped rooms, light is menstrual and oneric like the wind that is your face spinning the golden spider’s priceless silk through your fingers. A backward flowing sensation fixes your position and reverses the race of your myth without returning or bound by denials in the chill of a solitary resurrection. The Major Arcana of the owl’s desire for the shadow of your cognition pours the thick liquid of her presence over the entrance hall of inspired departures: the orphic petals wrapping up your grievances like so many hands clamoring for precious stones. Precarious, but loving hands. Hands of dream. Shapes of nearness giving off sparks. She moves with the wings of a leopard in the witchcraft of the feast. * The most despised (and therefore the most radiant) gathering of entwined apparitions prop up the female inclusions of the landscape that is the tale, the shadow that is the reflection and the escape that signifies the arrival, to the forest that dreams of the window, and the window in the fire that dreams of you... There is only the droning of persistent instinct that opens your leaves and replaces the pages of your direction. Nothing else matters but that illegitimate fuse, that wordless plummet between here and there. There is magic more fierce than the vessel it illuminates. * Her breath shaped the landscape into trees that knew your central nervous system, and the impulse of conscious planes landing in the fields where shadows gathered for heat, and immoral banquets, and the gardener who tipped his hat and danced the night away... This was an earthly sign, buried beneath the reverie of groomless hooves grinding the mist into flames. * Games of delirium, played with desire, moments of accuracy and precision to unearth your grandiose reflections, keys without locks, mythology of a distant cousin and the joy of fear, the serpent that unhooks its teeth from the departure of its double, the river that runs through the eyes of the horde, and her message of radiant bugs for an amorous rendezvous. In this facsimile of a spreading virus, there are always last minute preparations of mink and slender ghosts dipped in vials of sudden revelations. She covers your body with discoveries of sunken treasure. It is many years past midnight... *

Fire is breath walking in its sleep. Mystery is only a breath away. * A secret society is composed of the anxious moments preceding a checkmate, when great birds 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. To grasp the meaning of attraction, it is useless without an act of violence to shape it, and give it movement, immediacy, vertigo. She is burnt into the surface of the water, and moves outside of her image. * Movement is the solution to the question of your whereabouts. You are encrypted only by your refusals. The procession of all that becomes you, gathering light that eludes the windows and polished grills of days’ dark night (leaning in towards the faithful wizard) to pose once again with a lover’s addiction (moist fur lit by an emerald-cracked river) pulled in as close as life permits. Conscious recognition is the varnish of tender voyeurs, when knives are struggling to balance a desire with a doorway in the dream. Your lips are wet with thorns and premonitions. You throw in the perfect hat. “Touch me, sweet Sinister, sister, arc-welder...” * The personae of her immanence is to swim by her hair, and in such movement, catastrophic by natures’ seminal demands, lifts up cells rich in uranium and ghostliness (shell shocked and unveiled...) blending with rain, and she dives like a sense of being that enraptures the precious silence of bodies becoming luminous, raising sparks, looming phantoms, unraveling fleece, shooting stars, capturing angles, spinning formulas, layers, cellular refractions, minute and almost transparent constellations of purity and turbulence. This is how you evolve through the mirror of the leopard, your eyes submerged in moonlight. * 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. * A slip of the tongue and the hummingbird’s empty throne make the acquaintance of the word frenzy, 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 travelers

always meet, alone and abandoned with only their mysteries to guide them... and when the sun bleeds out of the dampness of the earth, like pale limbs entwined and exhausted, they all pause in their own fashion to reflect not upon themselves but on the white wolves in the garden shivering like mist, in the mirror hiding your face. * The nature of movement is an image lost between the objects of an eclipse fervently scratched into the face of a sleeping woman when she approaches the liquid state of a circle, wandering aimlessly in search of lucidity and those moments of inarticulate suspicion... when the riddle is only half solved and the alphabet is still adding letters according to the human motors that have not yet arrived, as a species, scintillating in the grass, burning time. Not far from your name there is always a question mark, followed by silent paws... * It is not without the mask of the Enchanter’s dance of unreason, that joy follows the torment of seductive shapes, and sudden appearances in the whisper of long corridors. Tribal veils rising out of fingerprints on invisible entrances in the middle of the landscape, assume the form of her shoulders and the intimacy of her bones making dust, taking flight. * The axis of revolt and the nobility of a springtime stripped of its flowers, expertly balanced with a murmur of the heart on the anvil of chance. Your voice arcing between the two points of day and night, where the oracle of water spinning rapidly above, that is your city of numerology, mixes with the flux of a long voyage more stone-like and absurdly graceful then either milkweed or deadly nightshade, when it acclimatizes the elements of transparency in the host of purity. * The dream birds of a lost language are growing underground in the bed of sorcery. It is all revealed in the arms of your obsession, Arachne, (crawling to kiss) pale Ariadne, (kneeling to feed) in a pool of light that exceeds the dimensions of the loveliest crime. She turns into your evidence, gaining speed and recognition, becoming a brightness never solved, and a clarity that makes crystals. * The early morning hours share their nakedness with those who bare fruit and corset fireflies in long slender bath-like caresses. “Your serum, Sir Moor’s Head, follows the grand figures of the sea, ignites them, throws them like vessels out of fire, raising the sand upwards into oddly repetitive enchantments. Drown me in flight, daughter of wonder...”

* “Le jeu des nuits transparentes...” The game of transparent nights and fluid realms of space that excite your tripod swinging cocoons and gazelle-like doorways, where sleep is walking among the bursting pods of brilliant gestures haunting the forest, in the street that reflects your bitter seductions and evasions, in the room that plays with an accidental dawn of permanent robes stretched into incendiary devices that capture cosmic movement, in the cabinets of the magician’s lost love, in the stones of abundant carelessness, in love that decimates... There are pyramids moving underground. Wisdom flattens against the glass. The earth is a double dream that travels long after waking... * A fire of black ink with ancient birds mirroring the geometry of reflections fluctuating inside your body, deep in sinuous manes of a deserted courtyard, where the magnetic fields easily slide through with each germinating alignment of fragile attractions, and endless threads... where you reach deep and spread yourself as thin as possible, as thin as a window touchingly fitted and calibrated by the exquisitely gloved hands of the mathematician, that angular echo, when he stumbles down the stairs, releasing nudes from their hiding places and pulling pigments out of each death and resurrection according to the degree of archaic abandon. Conscious thought is the moon in the jaws of the dragon’s tattoo. At 3am there is only the language of water, and she sleeps, guarding the night... * From your eyes through hers, a circle surrendered, an oval cracked open, a passageway blurred in wind, a death arranged in medieval times to reverse the refraction of light, a shadow cast across centuries like an obscure landing site that mimics the fog, a zero stained with acid and attached to a prism like an owl white as blood, like a phantom sensation that clings to you with love, a vessel of unorthodox gestures, a vessel of evening and a vessel of dawn, a vessel that covers your tracks and one that forges your hollow and radiant stone. She moves with you around the wedding night, bathing the birth of another light, another hour swarming with ocular pollination, growing hallucinations out of nothing lost, or forgotten. You follow her procession, a talisman of waking outside of yourself. * “Are you really where the light is when it goes out, anxious Eureka? Bright seedling, anomaly of pleasure in the spirit of water, does the memory of your groundbreaking lose its momentum, its reality and its truth, the further you are from yourself? Or, does it increase the memory of its rivers and its nakedness? Do you cease to exist when you have forgotten your birth? How far must you travel to avoid having to begin again in the same timely shape, where you left your calling card, a few hundred years ago, in the middle of a séance, when you came to engage yourself? When you were another, dust of a negative, ragged beauty of earthen solarization stalking out of prey the predators heart rummaging in the garden like a universe slowly disappearing into the precious

reindeer of insoluble ravaging... When you were other... When you are... Come to me where the light begins...” * The game moves both ways, taking paradoxical measures to unravel and refine the gemcutting delights of her plumed body when it shares the river with wolves and other likeminded sundials, lighting up the loom and the secret writings, the veil of her breath moves sight-unseen to the spark. * Further from night, where the other side of it discreetly springs into eyes shimmering like stones arranged according to the northern lights, in the phantom face, in the imperfect gaze suffering for the ruby’s table... twilight facing the chalk of passionless disparity, in the sleepwalkers marvelous mirror. * She releases the limbic scent and spreads her leaves to the side of where you reach in to listen, accumulating the layers of all that lives outside of language. Your understanding defines access points and possible estuaries of light. Movements are replaced by ravens of perfect absence. In your curious conjuring, what is most important is the diaspore of acceptable desire. Obsidian, lasting feast, when the forces of before and after have conjoined in the quest for the amethyst of an anti-portrait caressed by far-reaching fingerprints, you leave without a trace. * She was the season of equilibrium and the hull of the cooing, incessantly spinning top at the point of least resistance. He is the doubling in the nature of things that shed their mirrors with unexpected detours and ravenous kisses... and she, the distillation of the secret of losing one’s life while uttering words of unusual brilliance, for soothing, sinister alembics, and together, they, as evening gowns torn asunder, eyes entangled in the apparatus of long forgotten esplanades, unreadable manuscripts, witch-powered landscapes with blurred edges... they are the flood, and the structure of specters reflecting endless rain. She releases the eggs of a flying machine and the primitive gold of extravagant solutions. Her shadow is purring in the gambler’s dice. He is the fortuitous gift oiled by hummingbirds. * The grimace of occult sciences makes up the difference between the yes and the no of unrequited love, reckless and unbalanced, but tilting precariously like the fluid cylinders that taunt the tiny disasters of her hair growing wild in the city.

* Noontime is the mystery of a bonfire making love with the malfunctioning compass of uneasy nights and dreams chaperoned by presence. Afterwards, morality is for the candles that free your mask with beautiful slaves. Your departures are always conducted in silence. * Destiny is the movement of fine linen around the circumference of a gargoyle transfigured by nocturnal emissions and joyous reunions. * The author is pieced together with sand and imaginary conjunctions. You greet her with enchanted angles and remorseless endearments. She ignores you and denies the shape of your voice, and yet, with a precision known only to the most intelligent of the species, she offers you the ill-fated costume of speaking in her presence. Your joy is surrounded by reindeer. * With her eyes of submerged forests and moonlit knives, she sheds her antlers in the great hall of forged passports and mistaken identities, and with the paleness of life after a great battle she is the smoke of burning leaves, last minute embraces and cut roses. She is the spinning wheel of the vision grinders, and the last card of the draw, under the table, in the grass glowing, in the center of the word impure, in the interrupted equation of transparent molecules, in the open wound where a tiny bathing girl matches the silence of an eclipse, (she is the singing spoon) in the howling canyon under the warmth of a savoring tongue, for the blood of the shadow in the medium of reflection: the key to the invisible writing finds the doorway already unlocked. The lycanthropy of perception sputters. The iris circles. Fire eats. Only the wind in its absence gives you strength enough to bleed. * From here to there, her body is glowing with telepathic arrivals, departures, and other forms of desirable movement, entangled in the night-swan of the arc-welder’s precious hands. * The sun comes to flower and bear fruit in the heat of language, radiant larvae devours your name, the reflection in the eyes of night. Dark creatures are drawn to your presence. * There are always impurities in every gathering, to be burnt out of the river for the waking and the androgyny of a double-cross, a switch in the middle of the game. Your powers of hallucination attract luminous weapons, luring them out of sight for the pathology of tribal

veils secretly tuning their motors, marking their territory for you, your passage, your vast and unintelligible dialogue. Stones are singing inside. * Seizures of breath stir up the underground. In baffling corners there are she-fountains testing their visual disturbances on the counterfeiters who stalk them with priceless matters, offering their rites of devotion. You unearth stars in the emulsion of time, growing in the arbor of dangerous liaisons, on pendulums with gestures in red ether, fur-scented and cellular like royal herons giving birth to gemstones from Macedonia and children in black chasing candles... bone-balanced seductions more lucid then hesitations. The most striking objects offer grand decisions worthy of the blood offerings between them. On the terrace, evening is drained of its opposition, scattering seeds, lightning, whispering... * The position of sleep is the orbit of identity. The witch is an open piano of moth-like tremors in the mirror. The kindling of an alignment between others is the fear of nature. Your logic concerning the gyroscopic wisdom of owls, in twos and threes, and under the cloak of light, is a measure for trowelling in the fullness of being wherever listening devices spread out over the landscape, and the speed of each spark aligned with every other, winding around the spine, provides a troubling foreground of a humming sensorial dousing for power. She touches the one nearest to her with kisses of curare and rearranges the distance between pleasure and presence, according to the weight of the Middle Ages resembling lucid dreams. Communicating by dreams... both savage and burning with amorous ligatures of grace, the landings are perfectly executed slivers of moonlight. Profound. Flawless metamorphoses. Phantom assaults. She trembles and weeps like a magnifying glass... * “I am the dark shores of your reflection, and the will to appearance that ravishes the wishbone of incendiary nearness, touches of recent blurring, alchemical transitions between what becomes and what leaves, in what forest fire that fashions the black salt of doorways...” * The secret is in the misalignment of the infrared pelvic crossbow that moves the universe through your mind, around the quartz pointing stick that pierces the doll of reverie... Silver runs furiously with abandon through the famous last words of the wedding night and the wormwood threads of her eyes in obscure readings, always beneath, always on your lips, forever on the gambler’s breath: “I love you, precious mannequin, darkest light, lunar cairn...” *

There is the paleness of a dream theory masquerading as detachment and splendid proximity folding out of sight, in the cascading Ouija of her body, eternal feminine inkling of that harsh stone forgery that pilots the double mirror prefiguring another kind of movement, another golden dust. She is always the ghostly framework of the entrance, lustrous medicines chewed into smoke and spiraling over the phosphorous controls of a sinister and aleatory reconnaissance. Each direction merges into awareness as a single fuse, a lush portrait held up by the trees with a slowly fading X. Her mystery becomes so much brighter. * Silence is a reflection of craggy rocks in savage communication with the fallen water of memory, when it claws at shadows in the vessel of flight lost in the landscape of scent, where the wolves spin and fade like brides... * A narrative of bright and secreting manes. Lightning follows desire. Embalming light. * Night is a shard that compels the wind and rain to mimic your twin sister in that obscure Florentine painting of a doorway to a secret society where nakedness is reconstructing the vessel of magic. Fragmentation is sublime... The moments between glances, the humming of bees. * The Matriarch and her raptors have all but abandoned the sable of ceaseless nights in one fell swoop. She reveals the handles of aurora on the sphinx of burning windows laden with the eggs of secret measures. Her gown follows the compass of incorrigible fondling, freshly cut angles of sub rosa and angelica, other names, other positions, other places... Her shadow cast in wax is the movement of Bedouins through sleepless desires pacing the city walls, turning rain into light. Your own worth is in those golden pebbles, remember? Those that circle the forest with ever increasing momentum... Your motives are dark and forbidden like torches casting mirages piled one upon the other, witches dusting, animal lights... * Morality is chastised in the prism of amazing heights growing the long hair of hours that intercepts the arteries of utterly vague motions, positions of opacity ladled with the dangerous balm of mouths touching, almost obliterating the space between rising and falling, aching for pleasure. When light is squared, language leaves under a cloak of disturbed nests. *

When she fades, the monstrous turning of the earth is silent, and the divining machines begin their churning in the mountains. From one moment to the opposite side of whoever sees you, little is known of your exploits. You, yourself, are often the wish fulfillment of barbarian symbols, rare perfumes and breath-taking acrobatics. The caresses of a thief in love with your resistance, the elemental idea that confounds similarities with brilliance. * In the fields of transparency only the birds of prey unlock the wheels of ludic pleasantries, bearing fruit in the joy of the flame-thrower and his cherished granddaughter, the dark hive. Dreams are unprecedented gifts. Candles speak of earthliness. * Always there are slender threads, pale limbs bright as trees and forest fires in fine lace releasing the splendid cat’s cradle of the sexes, the luminous well-oiled tripod of perception. Philosophical seasons move cities inside, under the light of bones, premeditated and feline. Lyrical talons unveiling bloodlines, prehensile evenings and fabulous occultations under wraps. In your solemn spirit of old broods, howling watermarks reveal peregrinations of enchantment. Her always-empowered words prepare that knife fight between dilemmas, between disquiet and trust... Entanglements rule the tides, clone visitations onto branches... * To be unaware of your own fiction is no excuse, but it’s a start... and the rest is hearsay. * A harsh brightness equals conspiracy, divided by dangerous solutions that double the sense of a fabled presence touched by lunar footprints burning in the grass. The animal reflections of your insistent and flawless gaze troubles the draftsman’s table passing through phantom systems of nervous excitation, like a bodice-covered flying device exceeding the lines of adaptation to the whirlwind in the cage of geomancers, eternally sleeping with their muses, their spirit flights and fancies, their ominous nuptials and rampant circles. * Out of your glowing structure of ignition, when everyone arrives and departs at precisely the same moment, the shock of recognition stutters in the bell of the air buzzing with portents and hooded pearls in the realms of grief and desire. Her messages were always mirror images. The cloth of mystery raises passionate disturbances and loving threads, in visible space... All color fades in the albumen of her neck, encouraging the felicity of feeding animals, and her breath is a heavy presence, moving slowly, great slabs of glass prowling in the ghettos of consciousness. *

In the precocious sorrow of the mist you could see the old woman of the mountain shed her arrowheads and nervous tics, her thought provoking theater, more beautiful than her reflection pierced and stalked with antlers and twice filled with the shade that rattles the sleep of thieves and their otherwise starry cabinets. The interludes appearing to recede and then arrive ahead of the game rushing forward, hands throwing looms for pleasure. In this blind landscape the days and nights belong to the whispering of others... * An act of knowledge becomes the Belladonna of increasing charm, a violent act of a loving transparency. You replace the images for propagation with irresistible attractions, where delirium is the wheel of navigation formed out of a renegade chiaroscuros, caressed into geometric shapes that elicit your attention, shimmering and translucent on the brink of life and death... and reflecting outwards onto others all the emulsion of exuberant discoveries. The trauma of presence is in the purity of the pleasure of it. The sense of being pleasurable fills in the cracks between this and that, for the darkness of it... You replace the images that know you, with those that do not. * The most arrogant of dreams, if dreams can be arrogant, or powerful and detached, enter into language by the lucidity of their proximity to distant mysteries, to the imagery and magical arts of restlessness; often there were astonishing animals taking blood from your bright 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 where the 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 EXIT 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 moments before a storm. You swim in her expression of thirst, rescuing that prison of light, that edge of inkling and undeniable aberration. Her blood is clairvoyant. Her eyes, desperate. * Reindeer phantoms leading the way, in whose eyes could be found those aboriginal flowers, exhaling luxuriant locks of auburn and sunlight, and sepia-inhabited group portraits wandering in the forest of exquisite corpses and dressmaker’s dummies, where identity and gender 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 are thoughts of you in the otherness of those who give birth its venerable shape. The river that

follows 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... * Your messages, filled with the quartz of undeniable yearning, follow the patterns of flight designated 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 conjures the 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 you are 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, vicuña of illustrious vertigo, eyes that betray irony in unsettling dreams, unfinished conversation shaping the landscape, a memory of inconceivable feathers growing beautifully out of rotting trees, hidden meanings that dissolve the distance between opposing movements, slow wrenching of perceptive gears, light-burnishing altimeter, silent gatling of pollen, veil of the hive, sadistic alchemy powered by a handful of eggs, the dust of sienna in immaculate edges that 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 the movement of hovering shadows divided into the conquests of the hunter, when moonlight sheds its body, clawing at blissful accidents. Aimless steps are taken for the privileges of the mantis playing. She releases the glow from her glands, setting up watchtowers that summon the violins of dubious suitors and other perfectly symmetrical bowls used for irritating solutions. Her amusements resemble the jeweler’s vice in the early morning hours just before waking, alone and glowing with improper analysis. The quiver of light captures unrelenting circles. Her laughter is insurmountable, but fertilized with life, touched by anthracite, and answered in the order of appearance, and polished beyond recognition. * “Let us prey...” and “Do they bleed for us, or vanish?” are patterns of navigation, attracted to each other in the way that they come closest to masterminding the ambivalence of gothic pleading in the library, the sumptuous tears, and furtive glances, and the crimes that follow you with their quiet memories. It is not the silence that is tragic for the ancient groom, the careless mason or the splendid Lepidoptera, but the intoxicating daughter of anxiety, and the death-defying nature of the evening fusion... When the amorous key takes you by surprise, thrown in for good measure, and unlocks itself, shamelessly. *

There is the passage of early shapes, like sudden flashes of intuition, aviary senses zeroing in and unnatural disguises in the timing, and the slashing of each veil that takes your breath away: it is the nighttime movement of your dimension, passing time, a pure solar morphology that speaks with signatures, swift and unnoticed changes of direction. The blending of colors is inevitable and the names that arouse distant schemes, when flying is like seeing, or swimming. She does not arrive on time, and you know that there are wonders in the miming, of her hours and the alkali of her 14th Century magnetics, and the mining of all that once was a vague conception of intimacy... The bête noire of milk pitchers and cunning retorts are filled with mantic interludes that yield highly superstitious wedding nights. * The astrological wheelchair of embedded roses and maiden voyages, for the magical art of slipping out of character, the nomad’s weapon circulates in the blood stream of nightlights engaging the delicate savagery of dazzling interdictions (covered with wet fur in the garden) and the silver nitrate of slender legs parted, chased by predictions and eyelids, phantom spirits (those that burn with glowing trees and fierce abandon) from a northern reconnaissance, and the convex mirror that feeds the freshness of your kills with an abundant sense of purification and unexpected amusements. Solitude unravels the stitching of why you are not, who speaks for certain, all that precedes you and keeps you from harm, and in place, who you are, from light, reflecting... There are things only the silence understands. * There are mummies in the attic, and firebirds in the cellar, and through the illusion of where you are, there are numbers that place you in alignment with unsolved repetitions, dazzling clues, intimate T-squares of immaculate disasters unseen among the rampant vines and identities of late night comings and goings. Your breath is the fleece of a slowly burning sensation (a precious quest) impregnated with rubies and other signs of life, that strikes a chord thrashing about like a ripple through the escapades of sorrow and enchantment, dripping candle wax, cutting out pages, ferreting out coded passages... * She is the gathering place for the compass of soluble impressions from every direction, and the maze you follow through all those streets and hours, beneath all those bearings tormented by feathers and talons illuminating water and wind for a sacred anatomy between rooms, between the spaces of things twittering and singing, between living and dying in unison, where she plays with the pure white fur of golden eyes hanging in the garden. You adore her for that simplicity, flowering in her presence, igniting glycerin, and exhaling the phases of the moon, tasting her shadow. *

For each moment of life there is non-life lingering in the aisles, and phantom-life just off center, along with soon-to-be and never-was, and tree-life, above left, lording it over shadow-life, but anxious and yet crystalline near reflection-life following in the footsteps of fire-life, and ether-life... In the codices of Extreme Sanctions, under the secrecy of promenades and deployments, lives are endless rivers and flights of fancy, fatal lives and solstice lives; they are she-life and he-life, intermediate they-lives and other lives of question and answer, not altogether distant from, nor separate from night-lives and day-lives, distant emissary lives moving through all-lives... A knife fight for light makes sleight of life, when the hives thrive in derive and arrive in their departing. “Shh, don’t let them see you, or all is lost!” * The spinning of saliva in the yard at night, pulled out of the sleepwalkers dance in the slow motion of an endless capture, their being latched together slipping out visibly altered and strung up between lives to enchant, she is the moaning of an unquenchable thirst chasing each slip of the tongue and each measure of sequence, and he is the eternal divergence of his reflection piercing her shadow. In the morning they are unseen and guided by the flight of owl-shaped obscurities, brighter than a cluster of unexpected whirlwinds planted deep in the body of language when it can be seen and devoured. Crushed like carbon until it shines. Her dreaming enters the destination of your bloodstream... * When the significance of your actions matches the scene of a crime, there is evidence to suggest that the distance between one mystery and another is negligible. * Light bleeds for your desire when it becomes unbearable. * In the distillation of a widow’s veil, and in the invisible writing of her long black gloves, there are assassins dreaming of narrow escapes and jellyfish-triggered analogies to inscriptions resembling vendettas and precious words of praise. Her nakedness is the blindman’s bluff and the unraveled threads of barely visible interceptions. For her continued sustenance you become the mathematical equation of a terrible brightness coming back for you against time... * She is engendering beneath the woof and warp of her own presence, and within that shell is grown the magic of sanctuaries leaving for other destinations: the secret is of your body that undertakes the world and it’s ongoing origins, and the oracles of your own breath turning the fire of it’s bright and earthly ministrations preying for mantic patterns, and spread outwards over the body of itself the glimmering of antibodies. She is herself the

potion of the space that arrives and departs, and all the same, does not. Stars are swarming in the wound of your being where you are, spreading an illusion that will not be found in the book, or outside... * “I turn, against, and impossible to see, not bodies in sense, nor space for the shape I am endlessly desired... Come to me then in the roaring forest fire of your spirit, spreading out against the light of all that can be seen, and take from me all that cannot be seen, shapeless fusion hanging from the night-branch, a great cocoon beginning to melt. I adore you for your craving, for the absinthe of my mouth, and the little death of my departure. Come to me with a torch...” * The lighthouse keeper and the maze-maker exchanged their painful glances, altering the portraits of their numerical desires gathered together in the game of chance, the Russian roulette of a late summer night’s dream. In the haberdasher’s window, where the brides release their salacious murmurs, the heaviness of the bodice-door elevates the lightness of a shared anesthetic, shaped according to the sunken treasure that follows the delicate fingerprints of a quantum leap through the hoops of a human eclipse and the womanly owlcovered dive into mystery... brandishing the lightning rods of a devastating touch. The raven’s flawless linen lights the fuse of equestrian caresses leaning in against bare shoulders, along the watery lobes, almost breaking and releasing the silvery chromosomes of a brutal kiss that circulates like a magician’s secret knowledge. * In the trees that follow the erotic statues of your misfortune, your unrelenting crucible and chisel, and the celluloid version of each daring escape, there are tiny symbols in the ink that darken the entire universe. Your blood is lit with ghosts. * Your shadow is the sudden awareness of the vanishing hat and coat of the Carpathian mare (your ethereal great-grandmother, who posed with the regrets and omens of your forthcoming birth, and prearranged your marriage to the chimerical princess, La Solanace, the one who entices sunflowers to recite obscure texts in Latin.) She was last seen in the 14th Century smeared with the witches oil of a sudden whimsical decision: consciousness is revealed as a polyhedra of the most delicious proportions, and reflected by a mercurial dust with a penchant for possible battlefields and burnt-out factories. This is the legacy of your abundance, and the green of your eyes. She still waits for your reflection to appear. * When the black moon shakes off its chameleons, it is over-powered by the ovaries of the finest silk brocade. The spinning-wheel invents your sister, the chaste candlewick.

* Even in a dream she is impossible to distinguish from the darkened areas of the landscape that follow your every waking moment. Her purity is a sense of anguish. * Bathing enhances the chateaux led by wolves as dark and brilliant as lovers entering the position of offering and accepting the diamond-cutter’s center of balance. Bathing is the rite of passage in the form of a double helix for the concave mirror of lost identification papers. In the center of the bath, where your twin sleeps and multiplies, the act of worship is the burning of the stake, the vague and unsettling night of lightning rods... * The future of a memory, when sleep is extinguished and prowling with jackals, is like the heaviness on your breast under a veil of exquisite tortures: erotic solutions to imaginary events taking shape in the luminous body of the forge. Strange motors with medicinal sirens wrapped up in late night landing sites, your archway as delicate as a turning-fork. * A subtle distraction will always alter the awareness of esoteric breath controls and the poisonous nature of dew-shaped eels spreading rumors of love-sick emeralds, in a city that hides your offspring, many years after, coveted as gate-keepers in that long forgotten quarter of golems known as The Precious Defenders of Ennui, emblazoned in the wall of swimming past the hour of an idiot’s delight... * Her dreams cast immoral shadows for the capture of another bearing, and she resides on the left, transgressed by poppies and tempting orbits, while her mouth offers obscure liquids that burn the water of emerging dimensions, and those who cling to her memory take refuge on the right, close to those gazelle-like anthropoids in their austere capes, near the shemales triggered by coral reefs, and the landscape architects enchanted by the mysteries of the cinema––where time becomes light, where sinister mumbling comes to you in the middle of the day with clues of your whereabouts, where the fountain steals your body and the animals come to drink from your thoughts, where the clarity of bells formats the scene that offers the striations of conscious wonders in the flesh tones of film devoid of your presence. You, yourself, are the decisive moment, the invisible river baying at the moon. * The shape of the earth in the wedding night takes on aspects of your paradoxical spirit in a coven of tremendous strength and beauty, standing outside of the molecular structure of

science and other forbidden zones of shifting and shape, assimilation and luminosity. The Royal Crucible of pre-coital gestures whispering in the great wing of a lost continent, thrive deep in the thickness and friction of the surface. In your hands extended, the sisters ran with their talismans and their hauntings, and rubbing darknesses together, birthing embers for the gift of a treacherous visibility. The circle multiplies in the spaces between taboos like roots flaring up with every footprint left in the water. Her touch renders you luminous. * The re-enactment of her breath, each morning, her blood, her pools, the double chandelier-colored phoenix-shaped reflection of her conscious identity, stepping off a cliff for the enchantment of the species and the tissues of seeing through all that over-shadows her presence, the velocity of splendid fragments filling in the blanks. The Tarot of early mornings under the scalpel of a last resort, clothing the city by the sea with the brides of hidden snipers, the gaze of gargoyles spreading realities for the length and breadth of an awkward wonder. Moonlight avenges the leaves of her dawning, blood feeds light... * In the doorway humming, the vessel of noon is resplendent in its promiscuous sexuality, pouring out its liquids glittering with seeds and eggs behind glass, priceless and beyond reach for the gnashing of teeth, behind those doors––so smooth and inviting––except for the humming, and the whispered shrieking out across the ragged environs, the sibling spaces, the trembling burial places, interplanetary veils tipping the scales, and the exhilaration of throwing knives into fast moving objects. A dark beauty of glowing victuals. Her evasive smile. * The liquor of a kiss denied by herons comes in for a window in the desert, flying a reconnaissance mission that bores perfectly the subliminal tripod of consciousness, rigged up to resemble the furious ape that resembles the bagpipes of clever manipulation, that personifies the bonfire of perception transformed into the sorcerer’s curse and the barely terrestrial analogy to both the missing link and the vanishing point... * A love-sick dwarf and his anisette beauty waking up outside of time and memory, with only a ghostly casting of perception that opens the great petals of desire that moves distant objects. She is honey on the tongue with insects and their tiny cutting probes, and in his position, a galaxy moving inwards, he is thought of as fog that occupies shocking analogies. In this light there is only the possibility of your darkness, only an earthly weapon. A devoted radiance. A long-stemmed hive. In this she is a formidable substance, purely transparent. *

The movement of being simplifies gravity, and reshapes it according to various alkaloids and pigments of ritual sacrifices, and hand-maidens carrying the burden of space and harmony in the carbon of a silence that is your own personal aurora borealis, a cabal of limbs rubbing together, out in the woods at night, pale and shimmering, twittering, droning, leaving sparks to die out in the cool serenity of riddles solved. * There is magic and power in all that eludes you, in your genetic scrolls forcing obscure relationships, in the wolves that lick you into somnambulant shapes, in the vortex of an isosceles triangle touching (ever so precisely) the long-haired beauty, the owl-cloth that luxuriates in the middle of the street, igniting undocumented forays into foreign countries for the placement of chairs and questionable devices left unfinished and sputtering in a history that changes and evolves with the wave of a hand... Each according to their own means of acquisition, according to desire. * The syrinx of dubious proportions always raises the brow, the whirling dervish of the cinnabar timepiece makes for hurried embraces, the tiny hermetic flame that begs to be controlled and mesmerized into a doll for the King’s daughter and Queen’s delight, usurps the whirlwind of magnetic storms altering the passage of the forest through numerous doors, into unplayable musical instruments that circle the pyramids with the molecular adhesiveness of sourceless reflections, in a city full of moths, in a mouth full of words made of chalk. * For a change of scenery, there is that perfect object following you in it’s theoretical orbit, a compass threading suns through ingenious acts of volition. * She is the serum of the psyche’s dark water, the luminous bath meeting you for the first time, and the bathing ritual that shudders with the panting of canine leaps hidden behind the golden varnish of ancient sea levels and vague recollections, of newly discovered throttles and algorithms and the square root of your double, sight and mist, scent and essence, distilled, she is a body of water through which can be seen the cherished seeds of antithesis, swirling in the colorless stone of your desire, imaginary infamy in the eye of the needle, amethyst of the savage learning to waltz. Chaste paws making circles... * She is the promenade, the bed of crystals on the evening barge rising above the river. When she speaks, there is only the wandering geology of a marvelous cognition, and when she whispers in her sleep, night comes closer to the earth with its rotating calipers, digging

up the self-impregnating vessels for a final scene in black and white, where the thief kisses his captive, vowing to return for her breath, and steal her reflection. * In the deserted courtyard there are the three lamps of your antithesis, the aroused and fondling centers of all that surrounds your unnatural spirit, that rogue fountain on the red table of consuming veils and bright mirrors: rigged up to intercept each flash-flood of sudden ravens. The wedding guests are always arriving... and reflections are rampant clusters flying in from the dark, guided by the early scents of bodies dragged out of dreams. * To a weapon without light, there are no precious stones. * The spirit of breath is haunted by the forest of thrones. Breathing issues secret commands slipping off the tongue. The spirit rules when it becomes visible. The spirit breeds... * When brightness comes to the balancing of your shadow with the glancing of your reflection, there is that moment when shifting opens the field of a dazzling probability. She endures by inflicting an exquisite whisper, licking her claws. Night enfolds its light into you. * The black powder of blood when it crystallizes in the sun and follows the mask of seeing through the skin of your surroundings, moves slightly above the nitro glycerin of a phantom déjà vu, like the moonlight of a stairway repeating itself, alarming the rich veins of ore that once protected the children scavenging for the keys to their whereabouts. Locks were always intimidating when they came to life in your hands, tutelary fuses... * The hummingbirds of desire are brighter than the hurricanes of light. * You will never be the same, you’ve been changed, modified, made to shimmer and raise up the locomotive roots sealed to their furthest dimensions, coaxed to move unlike before, bleeding out the landscape for your own pleasure, shaping it with hurried embraces, turning vessels, erotic positions, outside of either shadow or reflection, a saber-toothed paradigm of fragments becoming membranes and then photographed into skin the color of starlight and oil in water hanging from the ceiling. Here, in this place, you meet the others who have

brought the evening with them, inhaled, long forgotten, and once procured, conjured, aroused, and burnt by the inescapable power of your scent passing through stone and space... One could be loved half to death for these insoluble passages. * Her eyes of espionage, of a razor at the neck of an innocent voyeur, in front of a recurring dream that takes place in another city, for the sake of a family portrait that opens on a breathless square doused by the visions of a timeless bride and her ill-timed groom, that double dream of night, those eyes, and that dream, impregnating the female after the ashes are scattered, and the last of the family has departed. She is an elemental asylum when she stirs the kindling for the fires of that transparency, as light or night is her body of evidence. Her vast sighs are unheard of, and filled with shameless ambiguity, fingerprints, poisoned darts, wheels connected to suspicious cabinets, unopened letters, gestures of resistance, tiny winged leopards no bigger than fingers, a dozen dancing dakinis, betrayals, and other lethal means of persuasion... The earthly dew is burning in the grass when the wind creates a circle in the dark that brings the features of her face close to the dreams of others... and interrupts them. * The sound of ovaries turning in the middle of the song entices the ancestors from their hiding places, turning them into candles. The telescope of longing discovers the bright eggs of adoration spinning rapidly on the lathe of a ruthless glance that stakes out a place for itself just slightly ahead of the game. Whirlwinds guard the entrance. Light is a crystal on your tongue. * A hungry spirit is a doorway of betrayal; a hungry doorway descends upon the feast. Desire is the door that opens when the mouth closes, feeding on spirits. * Transparency is the only virtue worth the killing of time, and rich in the superior dialects of the animal kingdom clamoring for the thickness of honey; the flesh of time, barely audible in the shivering arroyo with the proper amount of ether, and with alternate passports coveting protocols from the Victorian age, and precise weapons loaded with noble grace. It has all become a game, however intricate and even distasteful, but played with vengeance. She moves her breath with devious arcs, while he offers his double for multiple reflections. In the light only their shadows are cruel. The distance moves in close to touch the fur of your inward glance... *

There are the rusting bear-traps and the whispering claws that lead you astray, like padlocks guarding the lure of fresh milk in saucers of Abyssinian porcelain, for the master craftsmen, the cloak makers and the boot polishers that surround the fading terraces, slender and moth-colored, beneath the spoiled linens covered with invisible ink by ghost writers who find themselves exiled in foreign cities, with mythical numbers and blood-like cursives masquerading as great lovers who died penniless and filled with childlike wonder, chambers surveyed by poppies and opened with waif-guided moon keys... * At the beginning of a sentence that doesn’t belong, the object is the entrance, and your delicate but determined fingers move into openings that are forbidden in the ordinary scheme of things, tall shapeless things, wingless spaces, portrait places, intuitive siblings, mute bell-shapers, the migratory ones, the old artesian bird-woven thought processes and hurried goodbyes that linger in disheveled beds lost at sea. In your absence there is only the fire-washed skull of a thousand and one glorious nights that attract other dimensions, folding the others over into your waking moments with ceremonial lucidity. * For the spilled mercury of an enchanted bridle, attracted by slender night-like structures, those perverse pleasures of yours that parallel hers become the other keys for the other locks that honor the duel, when each insinuation opens the question, with a shadow of bees sliding downwards into the curve of sudden windows, where you are wrapped up in windlight, trowelling water-fire urns and crystals for the attending daughters who recognize the wishbones of your conscious foraging. Your awkward waking, that double fountain spinning dreams of itself, making love to it, bathing your blood and laying bare all those moments that precede the disquieting roar of your silence. Even the wind is aroused... * Night hallucinates itself, finding your presence even among the rocks that mimic those secret gatherings among witches and other seed-driven expectations. The golden-rod of your eyelids initiates the ravishing arcanum of crossed swords sparkling into fatal crossroads. She is only the beginning of a solution, the orchid-bright warehouse of ravishing bodies approaching the velocity of fear, and love. The grid-work hovers over muses, slowly. A river of vexing cloaks your movement, uncertainty pans for gold. * “The reflection you think is your own is really the presence of another who desires to imitate you, and then replace you with a more evolved sense of direction…” *

“A species of light touches you only once, and you begin to fade…” * “In transparency there is only the rustling of the wind, the vague sensation of having been somewhere, for some reason, and not remembering…” * Three times the raven equals the blind revolver directing the black light of amorous windmills, genetic murmurs, (and in her rapture she is the wax of the moon poured on your body) in a language almost never spoken but always replicated, in pearls luminescent for tongues, in the film version of silences and warm vases, in the ambidextrous renewal of subliminal where-with-alls and height-wells, and when she crouches, mingled with the feathers of your royal art, in dark powders and solutions, its moist and shining fur, its claws and fangs, and through the ages becomes the blur of the hunter and the myth of the stars in the taste of blood. * A nocturnal loom in the shape of pupillary vowels intercepting threads of memory when she walks this way, your way, the way of the loupe with its loving throat: yours, or hers, and other barely terrestrial natures too many to comprehend. But, always wet paws and glistening fangs, a part of the window. Light is fierce on the table of empathic crouching, and childlike maneuvers of pure unwrapping. Night... warm bowls filled with the consciousness of raw pigments. What is most desirable becomes phoenix. Dark bird of magnetism. * You are a tenuous light-wing as imagined close up, between palms and the alluring pelvic position of theoretical selves, the piston of an adverse storm, a taunting device, infernal maze of scent that keeps you burning transparently in the deepest place of the landscape between life and death, where three ravens wage war with three clavicles to make a mirror, a doorway and a forest fire. Three weapons share one target... * Luminous gears spinning for an eclipse of each provocative movement, and flowering within the shawl of a loved one turning counterclockwise, against mystery, evoking cries like pitchforks of light, and in the earth growing, in shadows forming sunflowers, moon-razors, caverns, in forgeries and behind masks, and in the bounty of thieves where sight is intangible and weightless, breeding and growing tiny galaxies that whine and stutter with complete and unadulterated abandon. *

A chance encounter between a handful of dark matter and an articulating sequence of impossible coalitions drawn together in the moonlight, where the wheel-barrel and the zebra collide in midair, suspended in time for a moment of obsessive gambling and incomparable looting: “Am I asleep, or only dreaming? Did I imagine you tearing butterflies out of my face? Will you love me in the morning when the hour is neither here nor there? Does the earth fondle human remains? Does the light fade in your presence?” * Perception regains its youthful demeanor by traveling in a horizontal position, but intimidating all directions at once, (with a willful disregard for bell-dark enigmas...) and striking out armed to the teeth in hermeneutic qualities and behaviors of a candle like a switchblade that separates the dawn from your shadow when it sleeps, when it scrapes off the active powder of a desperate longing that lingers in the midst of a disrespectful symmetry, a bright marrow, an autobiography of a shadow, assaulting the needle’s eye with the Milky Way for a body filled with emeralds. * Love is conspiracy to commit mayhem. With only a spark, desire becomes arson. * “I am the interpretation of your light and the antithesis of the value of your beauty, your useless perfections hovering in the thick primitive nature of those who measure you by your kindling, your swans of excitable green spores, your communing and the germinating loam of intangible instincts. I might be you, or become you, becoming who I aspire to be... the aristocracy of your desire.” * The Raven King and the Mute Diviner liberating the voyeurism of intense pleasure, while the scribbling machine lures the dark ages from it’s own image with a supernatural avantgarde of caesarian owls and other images of the body, self images of minute particles haunting uncut jewels, turbulence, velocity, empirical ravishing, slender scaffold poised for tampering, breath-bright coven-body where the anatomy of longing raises the stakes. * When you see her she becomes a series of memories that belong to someone else whose name you’ve forgotten... A mistake? An illusion? Reflections in other eyes that could be yours... When you enchant her, she disappears. When you eat her she cries, and when you throw her dice, she wins radiant subversions, and risks enough to cause earth tremors, exacting uncertain natures that fill the valleys lined with statues whispering among themselves. All the forbidden angles are resisted, but you succumb to magic as a last resort,

being, inhabited, cradling, moving the level of the sea and it’s bright behaviors beyond the patina of palm-readers and philosophies, and other vagrant silences seen from a great height. It was an evening of turmoil, but whimsical like a photogram and saturated with indigo. The evening had arrived suddenly, without warning, drawing fire. * To die for love is the moon; to kill for love is sublime. * “I know that you follow me and gaze at the nakedness of my germinating identities, that you devour the shadows I leave behind when I rotate and spin out of control, and I know the pleasures of your extracted guilt, that black, two-faced ruby, ebbing and flowing in disheveled masquerades that bewitch and amuse the storytellers, detaching from sleep the fulcrum of disbelief and the tiny llamas of delight... In this you are beyond measure and against the odds. Your orchids crawl to me, and I rejoice. Your sinister portholes desert the city and populate the countryside like secret societies. Your occult piercings set my levels closer to the golden mean of phantom tracings, and yes, my precious Antigone, I know the shapes of your howling. I would mutilate for your joy. I would capture that, and tame it...” * Swirling in eyelids of age-old Veronese, in the myth-shapen arc of the dive, there are priceless ambiguities and blurred sanctuaries, and analogies of waking pools and slender ibex that resemble your thirst. There, in the squatting glow, are those spectral signs that one finds in the city of unapproachable conclusions and, like anywhere else, looked upon with daring. The loving salamanders of desire, the keys to uncontrollable locks slip like clothing onto the spires of each deserted corridor lighted with amorous webs, obscure references, islands. You measure with your mouth the hunger of light and the fever of its lingering indulgence. * A ghostly movement of being sliding outside of itself, vocabulary of arousal, other portraits of another, into another chamber of caresses and gazes wound up into a single spirit in the face of the hordes, thriving in captivity, and freed from a careless move, enraptured the way a pilot in the cave is illuminated, with his wolf wings and owl-torch all lit up in the avalanche of a gigantic parachute dropping from the sun like tiny cities of quartz in a slingshot of unwavering sabotage. The fuse of life is the mastery of the fountain. The fullness of the fountain is the clairvoyance of night, the quenching, the heaving, the swaying chrysalis of silence. * Dancing in the desert is enfolded into sleep, with striking agility, crawling...

* With a desperate lucidity, she revolves slow and heavy like clockwork, quelling and gonging in scent-sight, the saber-tooth of the rose, in a serein ghetto without reproach, as two mouths open passing breath back and forth, frothing and snarling unsettling talismans, two streams intermingling in the heart of the sundial that carves out your invisibility... * In the morning vessel of the doorway, the dark silver annealing of the masculine shudders through the hidden armoire caressing its heavy breasts, slashing a stealthy off-spring of candelabra in a sigh-like fashion, and vicariously wed side-ways to a brilliant theft, with consciousness always on the brink of being something more than it is... She feathers out in the world, where you accept her intrinsic offerings, where the gold is feminine, twice the depth of the raven and three times the reflected glow of the wolf, and those matter-dwelling and driven spirits that send you scattering for cover. A name-spirit, a breath-spirit and a spirit of yearning; a spirit of blood, old waves and marvelous weapons, a spirit of innumerable things holding the city intact and encouraged, a spirit of savage encounters and slender-faced grazing in the cellular arms of a ghostly rain of gazes... eyes closed... open. * Ever so quickly the brush of ether intimidates the landscape still forming in your optic nerves, smoothing out the rivulets and the babble of being that fires up the carnivorous subaltern of that fabling House of Lecterns on the other side of the river where you were born and never returned. You would follow her glance, obsessed, with the elegance of a hexagon. * The myth-being of your sight-body in the sleight-of-mind. The intoxicating rift without conclusion, an unfinished essence, fugitive glimpse, analogy of clandestine reconnaissance, where those collusive locks enter the cherished river of unknown keys, presenting the human landscape with a luscious skin riddled with dimensions pulled out of dreams by the handful. A solution of dislodged humming and whispering deciphers itself in your image. Only a trace of madness can be seen in the candle-lit body of the magician’s illicit departure. She wails for his return, with her solutions flying into the forest, those thirteen centrifugal twins of light. The photograph brings only questions to the answer. The leaves glowing and pulsating, a gathering of eyes and others unknown to your self... * The sun enters water when the moon becomes unknown to your origins, like a ravenous feather manipulating the darkness. In tribal mirrors breath is a shade of thought in combat with vague and immaculate perceptions.

* In between mirrors, night resides like a body held together by the sea, struggling to retain its shape ground into dust by desire. * You disrobe in the field of the reindeer séance when it spills its mask, crash-landing into the graveyard of streetlights seductively chanting the poignant “hellos” and “goodbyes” of Flemish glassblowers, where the piper and the bearded lady herald the coming of spring. * Threatened by herons disguised as pilots, the aging of your sovereign plumage disrupts the tide of children playing in the costume of time, when it grows and flowers out of the earth, out of the landscape that models for your seductive antagonism, burning fields with bones for the stable of seers and the abracadabra of taunting soubrettes, and you, bright assassin, tender clamoring-machine, miming the coming of sleep in the hurried vase of somnambulant dialogue burning in the trees... Bird-light and hind-sight of inarticulate design, a primal tenderness, la petite mort, in the carnival circle where the anonymous robe spins madly in the elegance of an archaic stretch of the imagination. Threads pulled taunt, blindly and without remorse. * There were wonders waiting to change the nature of being, that un-parent the sisters and their lovers in the damp light of distilled mornings, more lucid than the light of skin haunting the scribbled map of making for the other and the icy fur of wandering for the shadows... throwing reflections out of medicinal caves. * You are the aspect of your words, un-forming the nakedness of the sounding body, where the grids of being more sly with light laid bare and taken apart and on the table of a distant voice, always altered in the aura of a two-way mirror dragged out of a farewell kiss sputtering in the garden, homeless and exiled, the plight of the aleph and the numbers learned in keeping, of twelve ghostly tigers becoming one slender veil, for the widow-window of sublime maneuvers. You are the translation of the earth of yourself. * Telltale alphabets and mnemonic heart murmurs drawing serpents of dream (Serpiente de los sueños), mother tongue of the body beneath your eyes of blood (la lengua materna del cuerpo debajo de los ojos de sangre), in the darkness of the moon when it swims through the honey of your breath (en la oscuridad de la luna cuando nada a través de la miel de tu aliento...)

What arcs in water drives the raw pigments of lightning circulating in your image startled by its reflection, its multiple triangles of light churning in chateaux of delirium and longing. always through, and in the cleaving, will give birth the rain in sight. Arc of final innocence. Perverse clay of awakening without reason. Clairvoyance, a jar... * Time is the desirable hive of daughter-shaped silences, where light opens you and pours you out one wave after another... * In the season of plenty, where the wild-eyed ladders caress the swans of enchantment and innervate the foraging and gathering, hanging by a timeless thread, your eyes, your uncanny nakedness in the fear of losing the mask, stirring fire in the metal, raising cane in the nooks, and inviting the fabric of night beneath the hat of an unbroken scheme... where the fog is alive and druid in the spell of vague and unavoidable solicitations. The Inn of Decisive Encounters. * Your movement is always in mortal combat with irony and candor, a ruthless monologue of constellations passing through presence, bright and unsettling. A subtle change of motion ripping earthquakes out of a single, implausible glance... * Without language there is only light, purely unaffected and overwhelming. * The art of evasion is an artifice without mercy, all sundogs and hoodwinks, immoral passions, and beautiful without reason. An invisible fire that speaks your shape in sustaining waves, knows your balance. * Three incendiary devices, in three statuesque doorways, those androgynous miscreants, loved and despised, are analogous to the raw pigments that navigate the long and arduous passage from childhood to phoenix through an ever-increasing delirium of arrivals and departures. Going deep into the starry chambers of the body, where light is more genetically reflective than convex, one is propelled outward through space and time where identity becomes less of a constellation, less of a paradigm and more provocative, more visible as an intricately geared and unraveling forgery. A brilliant theft. Lightning, radiant with lethal discoveries. *

A cluster of conjurations. The possibility of hallucination, as a species of language, is an ever-present indication of precise numbers. It is not only charming in its elegance, but also overtly deceptive in regards to any fixed sexual orientation, and highly seductive to veils brought about by attachment to spindles of witchcraft and other endorphins that propel the sleepwalkers into the heart of the city, like jasmine, puzzling messages, carnivorous auras. * Your eyes, and the other eyes that provide you with invisible things, go out surveying the places that await your arrival and the nearness of your ambitions, your tragedies and the unavoidable conditions of your magic. You will remember only that which is out of reach, but always beckoning... * Luminous beings meeting for the very first time, blind and immutable caresses. * Impossible fruit, precious motivation. Prowling discourse. Each casting, robing and arc pass through each parallel stance. Accusations reflect intuitive calculations... (It was distant and clever; the sense of amusement was beguiling, and when the lights clawed across the overhead beams of a truly ancient chill, in a fading and disheveled portrait that suddenly came out of nowhere, she knew that he was coming to her. She knew by the impulsive sparkling of design that the very air around her took its cue from the rain lit from inside each pure drop, and the bright threads that swirled above her head and downwards circling around her body like an animated cartoon drawn by a madman a hundred years ago, that he was coming to her. She knew without question that he was forging his name and bartering his grace for swift passage to the ends of the earth, and the foraging of the myth that would bathe them in mystery and fiction. No one is immune...). * Looming spirits of the dance, for the absurd hat and cane in motion, and the chase of the rendezvous through certain streets, the spirits of the edge of time in your defense, spirits that form the embrace that pushes with beauty into the rubies and emeralds of articulated exhaustion, those spirits of your absence, revolting against an ordinary space, where only the harsh glow of indifference prevails, with its severe threads, its impervious allies, dreaded locks and nom de plumes of a knife fight that leads into the whispering of others... for the unfaulted rights of your distance. * The joy of sense and defiance is the ivory of a distant stare, the wrought iron of illusion.


A self portrait as a hovering stone in the forest, above an owl’s table bright with the feverish sewing of widows in the maze, and polished by the river of shoulders, the sudden movement of statues peering, and a craggy vision loosening the anchors where the bride is swimming, fire-like, in the rigging that pulls the landscape through your aftermath. Without the dream-less ones hunting, there is only an isolated friction here and there, between what was and what is coming, for those who dream the same dream, never forgetting, without losing... The book of dust opens itself. The gyroscopic winds are the deer of endless thirst. * The luminous night that watches those who wander aimlessly, digging deep into their lives for the startling pinnacles that anchor the city of fireflies in the mint of tangents and salamanders feeding on wind, like seafaring eyes of being magnetized in water... You are behind her eyes, and flowing in great sounds that are known but not seen, those fingers of teeth hiding honey beneath those bees of sudden movement, being bathed by dream, a wake and a sleep, a flame and a lone weaving an image that sees you, for your flood that moves the dark aspects of an invisible structure. To plan ahead is careless when the doorway is a web. The hummingbird is knighted by the sphinx, unexpectedly. The glow inside forms the sea that reflects the nature of your body and the howling of your shadow... * The lost steps are found among the disarray of perceptive images. Impressions move into view on the screen of a scent made of flesh and bone as decisive as life itself. Beyond the images arriving with the velocity of breath, there remains only the hand held out for the thirst of prism and the serum of consciousness. In this you are living a deadly game of chance, when the sparks comingle in the storm of darkness rising, and your grasp circulating outwards across the field, where the wedding compass is not the broken record of infinite grooming. That moment tears light out of the marrow, bleeding green and breeding in the dark-haired scattering of a dream. The phantom inkling... * The oracle of night whispering through the amethyst of the longest eyelashes slipping under the door to meet you in your immanent shedding. Your breath is moonlight in an open mouth. * Under a coat of infernal longing the hawks confer with the mandragora of a woman’s bright and uncut purring, that curves the space around an abstraction of yourself, the landscape of a galaxy all celled and hived around the semaphores of a predatory leap grafted onto light, knees touching, holding sparks, down the slender utopias that nearly explode, until the angles are torn into random acts of psyche, silvered embers of otherness and paths crossed with blinding threads.

* You go out under the sign of a slaughtered witch. The optical voyeurism of light and darkness is wrapped up in a phantom journey. A heretic flowering that adapts to consciousness as a way of disappearing through the cracks, on a night mission, piloting a night-watch, a mesa of flowing locks, where the “she” tips the balance for the “he” that passes the goal, when the drawing pulls the perfect numbers, and every alignment comes looking for you through the hallways of gravity. * Beyond the image, and arriving with the velocity of breath, desire glows in that periphery where animals come to drink and breed for the squalor of your self in splendor... * Orchid of carbon, sun-dark vessel of the sea wrapped in your arms and in the shallows of your persona scattered in the dust of apprehension and otherness, beside you, ambient murmur that ripples appearances, creating the myth of wind scattering the landscape of consciousness... in a country without a name, knowing a language not spoken, where shadow and reflection change places, and light flows out of your body when it moves. In the forest of a conscious fire... * In the interrupted circle of Aube (that word for light between the hips) where the orphans come to spin tales of their secret elements and closely guarded matter (the names of purity and defiance, priceless gems...) the emissaries are long and somber, skipping bowlers across the surface of a mind-lit esplanade punished with navigator’s wheels and great pines with earrings that resemble the phases of the moon etched in the gold of an arsenal in possession of every weapon ever devised. The architecture of blood smeared in the air, when your need for diversion forestalls the necessity of sleep: you make love to the fountain, becoming water, bright as ether. Weapons unfold in loving fashion, without compromise. * The violence of the flowers eating the night-bird, the mirror-bird, and her body of the wolf spread out on the table in a brothel of mist and charred dolls repeatedly singing: “Goodnight, my love, come again, my love...” through teeth almost breaking with each revolution, diaphanous as an entreaty of bruises expertly placed. The water-bird and the bird-light spinning the delicious juices of invisible desire as it severs the window from the ribcage of endless nights and that familiar, continuous sipping of sounds. Dream-smear and apocalypserubies smashed against hybrid models squirming in barbarian gowns that charm the Queen’s unseen movements beyond the limits of the city, in the panting of night, for the alchemy of a kiss that unleashes the royal hounds, the masters of espionage and the burning swans. You

swear by darkness, and the nakedness of the kill, the sweetness of its heart, and the whimpering of a medieval necklace torn from the pale neck of waking up in the middle of a story. The Bird of Paradise dreams your face... * The distance between who is desired and who desires, and what aches between them with the invisibility of a forest fire in an astrological field of impossible theories, is all that is required for the sound that light makes when it doubles its gender and wanders off in search of a mirror. No reflection at all, no resemblance, no ‘eternal returns’ to tempt you, but by breath to command, to splatter stars, pull threads, lift lakes, bleed glances... Now you can sleep and open doors with uncanny accuracy. Now the circle opens past the hour of witching. What is desirable is the gauntlet, the shimmering outside, the savagery of graceful resolution, always interrupted, endlessly renewable. * All the additional movements and spaces filled and charmed with tenuous hands of wisdom, casting long shadows that flower with the purity of ruthless fictions and tender explosives, passing through the reclining nudes of the illusive ramparts of sacrifice and obsession... and passing through the stone walls of provocation, the fire-seeded lizards of persistence, powered by visionary feminine motors, spine-tingling attachments and hermetic handshakes, hesitant closeness, agonizing touches, radiant greed for healing breath (passed back and forth from one moth to another, mouth to mouth, from summer to summoner), to raise the green of candles chasing the sun into the crossfire of absolute certainty. * From the ampoules of a lighthouse throwing waves of vicuña slightly above the levels of the trees, where the swimmers find refuge, not far from your spirits burning in the wilderness, in the celluloid fields of that lofty observation tower protected by freshly scattered analogies... consciousness is attracted to your dreams and stays awhile, surrounding your maneuvers, gliding dust-wise through the scenes of that magnetic reality dropping its eggs and its shawls, its midnight octopi and other erotic vessels chasing you through the underground passages. If for the sake of argument, you feel you’ve come too close, there is always the branding iron... * She follows the designs of dark hives and diving with lunar ratios out of the exhaled liveries, breath of dark and dark energy seduced out of wish-fulfillment, bracing the essence of each doorway, against the game of sensuous appeals through which you pass, alive and along the paradoxical lesbian sage of jewel-thought and owl-rigging that calls from the street where the orchards raise the sea-level in the fuse of her name, slithering across the plateau towards mist, swinging anvils. *

Often, when the howling opens the rose at peculiar hours, levels the despair that only invites a confused exit from the maze of perception (when, instead, it is the heart of the maze that knows you from the siren of your presence), where the Aurochs playing chess with the Priestess mimes the windmill of an improper move, tattooed, pierced and marked with light, burning like the water that identifies a pagan needlework of purely transparent utterances, marked, lanced and laced, bathing night with manic precision; dream-wax burnt directly into flesh. You have nowhere to go but through it, a random Tarot-throw of mysterious gestures designed to intoxicate and feed with power. You caress the negative, your twin, aroused with antlers. * She assumes the disguise of controls worked with uncommon expertise, and her gown is the pilot of cherished promenades, longhaired spores leading your mercurial triangles through esoteric folds of nomadic tribes casting impossible tales of a luminous flow of blood. You share the distance with her whirling shell, a pulse of death passing, expanding between arteries of a backward glance that throws pyramids, torches that resemble her when she sleeps, absinthe flowing from her lips onto the ladles of arousal, and she crawls to you, her landing gears tearing up the curtains... her signals overwhelm your reticence. Towers are abandoned. In her refusal to compromise, she forms the eclipse that covers your tracks. Night is visibly shaken. Night rains in exile, profound and innumerable. * The groom is grooming the sand with his questions, the horses, polishing his bones, the windows, springing from his well with anointments, the wheels, firebombing the bells of sleep, he is glowing the wind for his hoar-faced objects, the sirens, that interrupt the oval rigging of distilled rubies and identified as you, as in the ghostly passageway, in your more refined moments, slowly sinking your teeth in the rind. The nature of things that stoke the iris being assaulted by the landscape, and the fleeting nature of your purity, however sinister and sensual, what remains to be discovered, pleasure is glass in restraint, and the tyranny of desire igniting in the center of a world and burning outwards... * In a state of perceptive shadowing, where yearning becomes sleuthing, the number 3 within the 4th quadrant of the wedding’s black hull, pervades the entire area of expectation as a sense of insolence and inception when it arrives without robing or ceremony in the archives of the city. The climate of the bride is the assassin’s name, and his weapon. The lust for blood is the female mirror, and the way she intimidates the tender ermine. The intent is not to return unharmed, but to arrive without notice... This sudden déjà vu enchants the ravens with messages written backwards, and the main primitive light of the mirror is then reversed. *

There is only the fleece of reconnaissance in the game of delirious conjuring, the fierce movement of reckoning, and the llama of courtship. The fatal glint of fighting knives in the outrageous gown of true bearing, verified and beautifully dismantled, is not the touch-stone of the horizon, or the throne of awakening somewhere unknown... Suppose that it is that consciousness of darkness with its marvelous inventions, its golden dust of arriving clueless but with intent to uproot the vision of sleep... does it become the glance that ignites the flood, your desire, or merely the birthplace of a useless myth? There are no directions that play against the costumes of purity, when the master thief relives the crystal in the blueprint that grids the last moment in history along with the hungry poppies of a marvelous discord. * Three ravens becoming three men, becoming three women and then assuming a singular escape route when the winds are changed into a single undertaking, a daring pilot operating a great sigh made of unstable liquids ladled out of lucid dreams with mysterious gloves, under a theatrical improvisation and clothed in stellated dodecahedrons of inspired equations. * The blue frogs and the black roses in the marsh at night, inexplicable torches guided by sovereign menses, enlivened by holograms of approaching planets, when the long-haired reflections come to molt and lapse into whining... in the castle, in a cage of fireflies, like a flying machine waiting for a goddess in the center of a tumultuous gravity. Initiation is always worth the weight of a spell, and the mysteries are always exchanged when the key enters the lock of a sudden recognition. The streets are empty when the words come out to play, and the roots caress your face, opening doors. * Light is in the nature of your body, and in its expression, configurations of fire, out of which the environs darken at the edges and in shivering curves bear the fruit of each other, as reflections are seeded and tendered by wind and silence, the wilderness of your nature’s body in the rain separated by a thread of darkness into ambiguous intonations of pure desire. You give birth in the body of the landscape, and bleed rivers, stabbed with constellations, screaming suns... On the table of consciousness a shadow is dancing... * Moonlight is a glowing stain on an ancient fabric dug out of the earth in a moment of doubt about the center of time. What remains to be done demands a certain amount of violence, impassioned precision, seduction. “Be swift, poisoned flower!” *

Desire is the wound made by the passage of darkness through your body. No one notices, but there is blood everywhere, flowering, leading, scripting codes. * Night torments you, and releases the chemicals of unforeseen windows shattered by pleasure. Light is the honey of lunatics invaded by empirical decisions, startling inclusions. Night occurs in spite of noon, when hands dismantle the gentle swaying of all that remains illusive to the touch. Beauty is transformed by the pitchfork, and rendered too bright to see. * Arrival and departure within the plane of vivid presence liquefies the shape of wakefulness darting among insects that lacerate the fruit of knowledge with tongues of scavengers and precious daughters, in the face blossoming stones as fearless as betrayal and bright as arson, staked green and soft as molten lead, uprooted and perfectly aligned: your hands are enlightened by urns. Arteries that share the circling charcoal of a moment’s notice. A portrait of conspiracy and mad dashing, unspeakable alliances, pigments of passage, bright cobalt brandishing weapons for intimacy, where the mirrors converse in pre-Columbian dialect to the apes spinning the friction of magical affectations. Time is the embalming fluid of whispering. Your necessity is everything... * Birth and death coexisting brilliantly for a sudden downpour in the unconscious Ojibwa of a stellar game, played between opposites, where they still hang silently, poised, between moments, cowried by starlight, occulted in pollen and made to work miracles among the raging of cicadas that are your flesh, your voice and the awareness of being alive, sprayed like perfume. * There remains only the urgent madness of a deserted horoscope in the sexual practices of submissive jasmine when it dawns on aboriginal caresses harkening back to the expectations of what never happened and never denied, except only within the minds of others, enchanted by the bodies of others, in a sign-language exalting the alarm of conscious recollection in the cargo bay of a ship burning in the harbor. The blind leading the sighted through the sunlit hours, the keel of intoxicated symmetry. You resembled the rigging more than the wind, the bride’s memory seized by salamanders... * To fade in the middle of a sentence, lose track of time, is the epitome of a phantom action inspired by centuries old methods of war and peace. The rest is rumor and impossibility shimmering outside in the woods that carves out your absence with cries of fire.

* The sublingual glands of the wedding coven, eclipse-like beneath the shalott of heraldic gestures with child-like arms, smooth as puppets, release their magical tables through the constellations of the landscape like a dancing female in the midst of tall effigies, bell-shaped lightening devices and lost continents famous for their alphabets, varying degrees of mint, musical notations, and purely innocent aberrations... Your communication during sleep affects the surrounding area and alters the morphology of escape, and the perception of that escape in the samizdat of an exquisite dive. An aortic rainbow ties the bones of night into a timeless waterfall. * Turning around is not the Horus of burnt-out symbols, but the armoire of perturbation. Fierce movement that alters night for your precious yearning, the knife of your pulse, the exquisite fluid of painful taunting and the joy of silence interrupted. You swear by her shadow, offer the earthquake and the deepest breath... * She is the dawn’s mouth of discontent, harrowing beneath that prismatic scent so rare to the reckoning of subterfuge that raises the curtain traced between her thighs, across the reef of distant schemes for opening the landscape at that point colored by the image of time, to be, where silence is, the warmth of wolves feeding. * She could smell the shape of his thoughts, cold and tingling as lilac and ether, and twice as bright between her own lips, when she drinks of his green warmth, trowels the lonely adventures of Nosferatu and the womanhood of a night-swan, kneeling in spider-milk, those visions in the cinnamon of splashing triangles: “There is no reason for your fruit, my love, in the slumber of your shallow pose, without the laceration of my memory of you, when you wake, I am your shadow quick as pooling in my hands, poisoned lakes, the wood-run of window’s dust, the gold breath for shore, with it’s humming province of specters, the amber of shuddering... I taste invisible, swallow my eyes seeing...” * Your lamp, clawing at veils: even if you are nowhere to be seen, there is a splendid distillation that occurs in the vagueness of the space you once occupied in the landscape. The sense of your light, would it kill her with its own fragrance? Would the wind misuse the white tremors of the layers eating light through the lacemaker’s dark city, mirrored by tales both sensual and savage, where wandering becomes consciousness? Your tongue feeling the approach of prey, the infrared of moving doors startled and aroused by ambush, through eyes like teeth, like the shape of the watchers who guard against the illusions of space, as a glance between reflections. The signs you send, against time, are not alone.

* “Precious earthlight, anomalous destination, I am the twin of your double, and the next of kin, childlike in the drama of snakes and hoops. I am the sister of your daughter and your father’s igneous glimpse, the slow-moving hound of silvering, who leans into the image, the shadow of coupling costumes and the star of your work-in-progress. I am your river-ending coalescence, spellbinding measurement that includes the gown of brightness and the slashed trace of your presence pouring through the city streets, the pelvis of hallucination, the navigator’s diagram, crawling, loping, scattering, gambling, fusing... There are many of us for you.” * In the mysteries of the rose pressed by branding into your heretic dance, there is the lighthouse inside the shadow of your reflection, recumbent and startling, spreading the pure jackal of dark-sided intimacies, raining the wedding night of each dimension projecting the streams from your sinister oasis, and dragged naked into view, where she is the witch’s course, the pilot’s diamond timelessly drained for pleasure’s language, the Rotterdam of exhaled eyes. You remain as unknown as the sand that escapes the fruit, the storm and lightning of your skin that glows the forest, evolving pebbles, light seeds reversing the landslide of elegant strides. * She moves with you as night and reflection, moving from one into another, through the others that all gather for your waking abyss, that long thread of splendid days and nights, secret hand-writing, the invisible blood of the face behind the hive, intoxicating keys within the gaze spoken by your mouth, sexed as much by your absence as by the aurora that floods your presence, hitherto and lambent as if never having been here, nor awakened before. A violent gesture secured in the middle of the night, the voodoo of purity. Your eyes are no longer at home in the figure of the city that is drawn around you; perception is the rape of fireflies in the bath of a single, incorrigible embrace. * Your earth is the power of the glyphs in your rotation, and it is the guile that rules the placement on the heron’s glide, the unreasonable antidote, that draws your awareness out of the rock and every other rock that stirs the compass from the squall of lynx and pleasure beneath the table of your altering eggs, sister-like claws, and the terror of joyful whimsy, that cocoon of a dreaming serpent. You are not the wolf, but all the wolves in every forest, every thirst and tenuous source of light from every throat, drinking fresh water from her breath, the syrup of consciousness, where each identity is your own, passing through. *

The virtue of a last revolt, where only the revolt that turns the stile, from the fountain’s elliptical castle-keep keyed into the keening of the dream chased, and the out-of-whack flaws in the fabric (the sense of being alive or not) where you are touched far deeper than darkness, and measured in the mirror of the art that fulfills and makes ghostly in the looms (that woman in the landscape) the presence that fails the illusion and the golden means (landing sideways in the image) with pistols drawn... * She will always be the one who coaxes open the eyes and weaves them past the hour of any thirst-colored and hazardous return, and fires up the evidence of assassinated harmonics, unclothed, in reverence of a stark transparent rendering, burning out the core of resilient hunger. The discord is in the discord, and the moment in the moment, when the sovereign zigzags caress a perfectly executed bone-wed slumbering, and the animal bathing in brilliance, shedding a brightness hammered into being for the vessel-beauty torn to shreds, the bell that bleeds for time. * You announce, in your own way, the ghostly timbre of La Tène, graceful and dark, longlegged and meaningful, ancient with the cross-fire of stammering that foreshadows the fullness of mystery in the sudden act of musing––a delicate correspondence is shifted against nature in the jellyfish of candles, an unavoidable deviance wailing in time... The torch of your presence is her light pawing at the doors among the fossils of gold. Could it be misconstrued, that your death is not your own, but the passing of a shadow? * Light is an ill-timed scorpion, a dark river too bright to see and even more than awkward, a penetrating glance to place each identity within reach, out-stepping even the river itself... when time stopped moving, polishing bones, staggering there in that place where dreams change reflections with consciousness. The circle is uncoiled for breath, and all is forced spontaneous in the clamor, from one level of breeding to the next, the wind like the daughter of a master thief, stealing the threaded pearls of absence... * The psyche of an uncanny thought follows you like a sense of wonder taken by the force of love, as fierce and bright for the arcades of multiplication, as the shimmer and the shammer in the orchid-grinder’s moonlit conquest. The caress of a nubile calculus. Your movement into the other, for another gaze, your mirror facing the spectacle of others, for a distant cover from one into the other, into another, and the air is filled with sparks, breathing out of the world for an incandescent balance. *

You are invisible as a night left hanging, a secret entrance, and seductive as a golden bridle fixed in the Marie-Thérèse tree––that spyglass dangling in the dreams of the future King of Utopia. In her clothing the death of the King is imminent, and ravaged by rapacious birds of perception. “Farewell my love, the hour is a door at sea.” Finality is riddled by the spirit of heretics. The dream-worn clavicles strike the flood of heroic mimicry, a clairvoyance in the key of bees. The ink is glowing towards exploding toys, or the dark equestrian of a moment’s notice... a vision for the phoenix at the gate. * The spirit of enchanted movement on the verge of tinkering, becomes the silvering of your blood in the roots of each distant approach, each to each leaning in against, the haunting in the known world, the jagged rocks of a face in still-bright mist, the weapon of choice. The outward appearances thought among themselves, the desirable object arousing the sea of a precious discontent, grooming itself: “We are all the breath of darkness in, and the light exhaled, for the cells and seeds of smearing in the loom. This day among them all, the emerald of consciousness weds the ruby of who among us sparks the velocity of silence, of moving faster than the sight of seeing the idea, for the leaving, we are the watery flame that writes the names that spill the blood, that rouse the fountain of no other time. The leaving is the arrival, the invisible touch that ignites the rain, at night, in the mooring that conceives the dark to ashes, and the light to dust, or the other way around...” There is in time, no time like the others... * For inspired reconnaissance there are only the slender veils that preclude the darkest corners, the lofty scattering of endless debates and the primal fires more beautiful than ankles tethered to careless windmills. * Everything is in the process of being forgotten. The apples are whining continuously. The fountain rising out of a shot-glass wedding is easily dismembered, and placed on display in the later part of the 14th Century, followed by puzzling burials, interminable stares, saltshaped getaways and fervent licking... You have been grooming yourself with details for such a long time, space is a thing of glass, a flesh-covered embrace of unexplored night in the vertebrae of mirrors. Desire illuminates in Portuguese... * Your hands are the light haggard and breathtaking in the slates of desire and cold twilights where bodies shed their whispers like ink behind the mirrors, running ahead of the masks that unravel their own reflections caught between hours, where gender wicks and wax-night casts of spelling bees disrobe in the shallows, spread their hauntings and part their traces in the razors of wild abandon. Life enters consciousness with the sudden loss of a splendid dive taken at random for the gasp of extinction, the slow reaping of pleasure, your delighted antlers hallucinating in the dark, the dark itself.

* The figures depart in their own shadows leaving reflections burning in the grass, with taboo-shaped eyes and multiple yeses in fabrics of suicide and lavender, reigning in covens rowing rapidly through kisses that linger for years. Mist identifies your body with tiny flames. Invisible writing of miraculous antidotes revealing the pleasures of a naked lighthouse, in the shape of your fears, turning in the manes of effortless holding patterns... when you can barely speak. * Your presence is dark in the moon when it glows under the earth in incremental shapes, incitements waking in the mind to rendezvous with consciousness flowering in blood, children playing hide and seek with rubies in the liquid of life. * The game of others played with enchanted strings and cylinders, through a voice of fireflies and impending earthquakes, fingerprints of a three-dimensional universe hanging out in the garden, dripping landscapes slashed with the ache of consciousness in mysterious clusters. There are silences exiled in the body of talons and gowns. Movements powered by rivers that overcome the childhood distraction of untamed masks giving dreams to the capillaries of starlight, and chimerous widows leaking syrup for dark rooms... * She follows crystal, he follows flood––Or is it the other way around? When you spread the eucalyptus of her optical chambers, crushing the cervical alloy of genetic landslides with ghostly hummingbirds and feverish panting, and the beautiful lightness of manikin-emulating horizons: they come to you, and you follow them to where they were. It is a parallel gesture, but unforgiving and gathering magnets, undertows, defenestrations that profile the Northern Lights. She is, we are, a flood of crystals. She is your spinning-wheel and the end of the thread, the filaments of your somnambulant vocabulary, and in her utterance, her impulse to ravish, there is always the gnashing of teeth, desperate flowers, a pure revolt. Her flaws are immaculate... * A chamber like a tree of fog that sees through your eyes, that comes to live and die in the facets that endlessly command your attention: this is the cabaret of Roman numerals and other insightful attractions that slip their moist petals through your face becoming transparent in endless levels of space. The flickering of eyes remakes the earth out of light reflected in the darkness of other murmurs in other bodies, capturing, dismantling, illuminating by force. Entrance is by invitation only. The wind clarifies your presence, wiping away the evidence in colors too silent and too distant to taste, except in sleep.

* There are no choices given to chance without the precision of a cinematic hermaphrodite, sharing space with desire, in the train of seawater and eclipse, when it all boils down to inspired egress and the life of windows in a monstrous embrace, a saber-tooth in the milk of transgression and adoration. A night in the day of a gambler’s twin. A rare manuscript held together by imperatives and lofty crimes. “I love you”s exchanged like illegal goods in the middle of the night, or secret potions. Desperate measures have arrived, under wraps, to console the clowns of grief, and the slippers of life trembling in the arms of a desert mirage. A thalamic rendering... Your bones arouse fire. The earth reveals itself to you for warmth. * In the bride of sunken ships, the moon captures the water and releases its half-lighted moths in the reindeer that is the mirror aching to be licked... It is the hint of an eternal springtime, it is eyes opening with the roar of honey collected by vagrants and exiles desperate enough to approach a state of scampering through flawless execution. The impulse is in the placement of sudden watermarks, bearing a one-legged sea captain and an old gypsy woman dancing in the hollow for the aurora and the contraband of light, communing with fleece. Purity and disparity collide. Starlight mirrors blood... ............................ J. Karl Bogartte – 2010 The first draft (unfinished) © Book III The Luminous Vessels

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