PRIMAL NUMBERS

“I can accept that in some state of altered consciousness [d’Alveydre] saw what he claims to have seen.” - Joscelyn Godwin

I The indelible face washed up on shore, presence dragged a thousand years through the sun, a bell of aboriginal whispering strung upside down with such fierce conviction that astounds and decides, giving birth to dust, breathing into it, shining for it, scattering civilizations. The precarious brightness of pollen, as clothing, is volatile in its supernatural state... a fine powder holding the structure together, hidden beneath the eyes, the mouth sucking in starlight, passing through preternatural gardens of carnivorous purity. A carnal purity, a pure sense of animal sighting, tasting teeth near the wing. Each movement is based on secret deductions, hands shedding oracles that populate original gestures grappling with sparks. In that face you see what glow passes for vague constancy, a monstrous veil, the fire of morning flux...

II Delving into a deluge of lapidary substances, a storm chases the butterfly, considering a frenzied multiplication. Hands have come searching for warmth in blood, and find wordless immersions underway, a grand gesture describing persona, and a stairway of shadowed surfaces splicing an aristocratic bathing ritual with explicit bones striking light. “We have come then to this place to dissolve rebelliously, and with irony, share our ferrous grids and molecular hives, our absolute flesh colors and porous identities drawn by shadows, slashed by hunger. In this, we are ageless quartz.” A swarm of word-gestures pulling up stakes, enchanting waves, precious fruit that speaks to you in the liquid of lost meanings... assault of antlers. There is little beyond her movement, that vicious jutting outwards into a mirrored spirit, words imploding, burning water into a shaded body of voices crystallized. Rebellion is ours alone, entitled by darkness. Terminal metamorphosis.

III The monkey confronts the monologue, enchanting the abyss. Lightning, mouth-giving scent strictures disrupt the chain of events, feverish language unspoken, hoarse configuration, a silvering arc of the dive wrecking havoc on the body of the forest that illuminates you. An avenging caress of forested light. Once beyond the reflection you breathe sighs of fortune and singular monuments, your motives of arousal clamoring for trinkets, and telemetry, a dominion of facial expressions and discreet layers of presence, creating ambiguous shores of exterior intrusions. In faint corridors arriving on the scene, the fatal stream is reversed: “Coming, you see I, once removed...” Forced inclusions, slipping open, sliding through light, between light and emptiness, enlivened by flaws, deep-seated, rooting and seeded... You are placed in the cellular memory of things ahead, being lighted, witchcrafted.

IV The game has no rules that are not dishonored or ravished, nor is there anything natural about the space that covens in the distance of a presence that shills and stammers, the troubled heaviness of being within sight, convening. “Caribou... Caribou...” fostering the emeralds of her voice, she shapes out of nothing visible, in a mermaid space, and defines the slender and elegant attitude that floods the amazement of time and its delivered symbols... breathing words, between rapture and sleep. Cleaving designs of discovery in the habitual cleansing of a volcano’s reflected surfaces, waking you from dreamless sleep, unraveling, emitting the liquid of stone. “Bright and cruel, my love... your move...” The stealth of stalking shadows, forcing direct links to the invisibility of what is urged and provoked into the visible realm. Inevitable confrontation, decisive cursive of those birdlike horns entangling long flowing locks of auburn and taste of cave-light, to invoke the forces of nature as breathing stones. Without touching walls, there is only the fluidity of fixation, for absolute clarity.

V Time is ancient and guides the fountain that imagines you, slowly sealing up the cracks through the arc-welder's dedication to the hummingbird, the sea spirals like a sword reflecting it’s landscape through your urging, sinking in. If time is the age of light, what is fire when it dreams? If the elders fill the abyss with shadows, by which course is breath changed into gold? And why? Ingenious clues dispel the cache of hesitations, when looking through antlers, the anguish of the angles change the shapes of each attenuated attempt to grasp the moments following emergent passages, semblances, hauntings... and what of the forgeries, those exalted caresses of seduction and sabotage? Through what wing to seize the devastating conjunctions of one statue after another, one false alarm and one pathological wellspring, shimmering, like so many voyeurs chiseled through each reckoning glance? Each glance urges fire, in so many words, seeds by fire-storm to ravish in your casting, desirable objects out of sight.

VI Fear is a tree when it branches out, a forest when it overtakes the city, spilling chlorophyll the color of sunlight into empty rooms, breathing pyramids. Shaping distances into psychological conjuring devices, she is freed from the adulthood of interrupted circuits, ignoble family portraits and empty locks. The city opens its doorways and darkness leaves with veils facing expectation, igniting fresh fruit and delightful mornings, gestures like serpents swallowing the milk of maladies, delicious pranks and sudden encounters. The trees are haloed in pleasure, inhaling light. Tripods are entering the mothpools shoring up the forest... Fear is served with fire, escaping the center. That tree branching out in the humor of distraction, carries more life in its dark breath than even the sea, in drowning.

VII A shadow of nights, nights dislodged, and woman bathing rain, breath of rain, translucence of light becoming brittle through her landscape, the entanglement of language in the spine resembling sleep. Sinister adores Chaste, X is the shadow of Umbra, and in the Imago there is the grasping of Obsidian, and Aurora crawling on her knees in the spirit of Salem, heavy with fur and sapling legs. It is your body becoming transparent in the depths of a more obscure portrayal, or the clanging of incessant particles charged with a pleasurable flint, luring hooves into passage. The line between explication and understanding is rift with portals and detours, but it becomes you, beside you looking in, moving awareness a few moments into the shallows, and that posture, her face a muted acquiescence, a cruel smile, a winning ticket on the table of longing. One combines with another for light, the effects of a torch... while others fill in the empty spaces, mental states joining forces, killing time. In delirium there is ample room for the illusion of pleasure, the black flower of night. The nitro of love’s glycerin in the warehouse of mannequins...

VIII The rose of mirrors attracting the body’s mercury, the rose playing leap-frog with the fire in the forest, the fire of winds. Your reflection not always the silence of the sea, but the fire of it, the crux of a gist, the force of the whirlwind pulled out of the furnace, and a graft of molten apprehension, grappling into a fine mist. Smoke is the entomologist studying the backbones of a sleeping female version in a primal stance, of sea-light hunting for eyes, traces of navigation, from an apex perpendicular to an impossible redistribution of cognition that once again compels your death to what place you are besides now, when there you are, becoming further, a master of arrivals and departures, messenger of the rose... The fire of the lightning-rose, and daughter-wind of the forest-mirror. Ageless reflection on the wall, burning out the center of your shadow, in the rain, the fairy tale of venomous phrases... the ridiculous riddle of a blind tiger.

IX The body is the parachute of delirium. It is the fruit of famine and the secret feasting place. It is the dead of night in the opened grave of possibilities. Your language is the body when it falls and spreads and becomes ocean, engulfing the city. The ocean is the fire of inhospitable splendor, a beacon of passion, a storm of golden dust pressured into anomaly. Breath is the anvil of conscious possession. Directed by a distant cousin, half woman, half man, half lake, grooming itself with windows for the aslant cones of light and irresistible preambles to intersections of fluorite and indigos, amazon candles fleshing out the rigging of dawn. The bride-motors making contact a species of occultation and equestriandelving auroras, coronation of your eyes and the eyes of phantom springs, the scissors of utopia secures the enforcement of pleasure. Movement is the harbor of hallucination, the harbinger of intermingling mirrors. Sleep is your language among the animals, generating sparks.

X Irresistible blindness of navigation, interdiction of sphinxes crossed and perfumed with evasive measures. The meridian of indistinct costumes following the heavy breathing of nights, ruled by the moon, its ladders, and the precipice... and it is always your attraction to the delicate vials of uncompleted nights, daylight poses and their brilliant traps, and slender necks blackened by lace, in traces, half-erased, the lost manuscripts, the inexplicable lures threaded with hooks that sever your mythological connections. Lyrical urn of the city’s dark secrets, slow dirge in the fog of deceptive exploits, receptive movement taking the scent of gunpowder deep into the recesses of heroic seduction, the presence of a recurring image lights up the horizon with it’s heavy purring. She left a kiss on the mirror, slowly blurring with your image reversed, whispering in the dark... whispering between themselves, a moment of unreasonable thirst between phantoms. A river glowing at the edge of reality, moving mountains.

XI Delirious candles make for a fine morning mist... A porcelain doll wrecks havoc on the window between language and absurdity, between the shawl and the forest, where the grinding machines are moaning and bleeding pearls. Your touch is irreversible. Weapons are loaded with moonlight, and the anxiety of a conscious thought removes the harsh ledges from a savage glare filled with ambiguous mumbling. You perceive through antlers, as seeing in the darkness of a costume in the exile of languages stalking the borders, bride-language consorting with ravens and the distillate of a whirlwind filled with eggs, a wedding of rain and cracks hiding wondrous words of taunting, and perfected visionary leverage... Chandeliers clash with fiery questions, advance on the reflection in the mothwindow where life is synonymous with somnambulist gestures, in deep empathic fields, when consciousness passes through like an antiquated horde of messengers, heavy with the slender gift of gab... vessels of desire that are undeniably transparent. Slabs of light greeting gardeners and mathematicians, new growth, splinters of dark flowering, ominous jewels, identities, idolatries, spores... shimmering and harmonious scabs of light. Stuttering narratives, interrupted.

XII The thirst of vision through fur of early arousal, salivating dream threads over sleepless bodies caught up in the harsh anxieties of having escaped oblivion by chance, not by choice... severe passage turning bright. In your refusal to accept defeat, you haul doorways to your ceremonies, decorated with smoke-shaped landslides teetering on the brink of awkward resurrections, glowing paradigms, fondling the wetness of Springtime... that wetness, ignited, thoughtless glow of the forge. Thoughts of a starry night veiled by widows and salamanders, she is the animal of misshapen petals unique by sheer force of will and defiance, ruthless magical announcement meeting strangers, bright spirit leaping down, feeding, chaste assassin. You leave by hieroglyphics and speedy recoveries, the scratchings of eternity between her arrival and your departure deliberate the question of balance and hallucination... knives fighting to create diversion, and pleasure. Enchantment for the rhythm of the universe, tips the scales in favor of a painfully sharp definition, a vile exorcism of identification, an erasure of the nothing of knowing... Sudden fountain ripping the night to shreds... loving detonations.

XIII Flesh of fireflies, dazzling armada triangulated by specific words torturing the coterie of hallucinators, torching the gambler’s luck, the moll of the dice... and you seek the level of eyes, entering eyes. A draped fabric of fireflies reclining in a southern village, in the catacombs of a harsh distress feeding lightning to the barren field. There is a purity of spirit hard as a diamond in that fountain of risk... that harsh grappling of one over the other, and of ultimate revelation in the conjunction. A night-shaped stare follows a sign of the raven reassembled inside of an evening gown the color of burning chemicals, and sleep, the exchange of gold coins, had left for a more comprehensive vista... The flow of metal reverses the glow of elements, a flaw in the matrix of the heart leading the costumes to fire, time grinding to a halt somewhere in a small garden across town, held in place by spider silk and the warm breath of wolves. The alchemy of dripping wax is heavier than glass, but more elusive than a missing child... and they both move faster than gargoyles.

XIV They might be the ones who guard the body of phantoms, the galloping of breath in the forest membranes... and you certainly were the lighted ruins that appeared to graft, with arcing, onto fumbling light, onto the still babbling wardrobe of immense glances more water than fire, more fire that light, and darker than an irresistible desire. In the raucous of an unexpected arrival, Balboa was without fact or definable substance, and yet, there were hooves and dismantled projections, vast arenas overflowing with branches that break through dreams and emeralds with coded messages, deeply troubled wing structures and last minute preparations... Balboa was the alkali of a talisman, a ribcage of twilight dragging its lucid anchor across the camouflage of sudden chills and expectations... Animal time is prowling in the windows, hypnotic attractions, in visceral silence held forth in sunlight, the invisible tide pool of the bride and her preying, to gather up the essence of her “since when?” into threading clairvoyant pebbles. “To gather, to gather...” distraught staircases shedding omens. The walls of time are purring, and they sever your branches... The membranes of infinite silence know the sense of your yearning, and create brighter stones.

XV The chance that enters your body like an empty street, careens into shadows moving inwards, in the reflection of many centuries unlocked in the space that recreates your breathing rhythm, that ruthless system of divagation in the shape and texture of a twilight spilled and swirling in the bridal bed. A sinister brocade mimics the astronomer’s lens. Memory dives into mythological water, gathering sparks, intimations of fire, and at the last moment invites a marvelous disassembly. You force images out of night glowing enchanted with dust, out of an oceanic desire for exhaustion and forgetfulness... Terror of the blood of the wolf on your lips, the fabric of pleasure: high noon is full of dreams. Space of silence like an abode of gongs erupting in the various glandular anterooms surrounding a precise cognition, with you inside, spread out against the horizon. Purity is groomed with violence, a constellation of suggestions planted with brilliance, pacing a psychological eclipse... a solar shipwreck, transparent.

XVI You wake up wrestling with the twins, the double black ravens in a field of sudden landings, bailing out of time. In the alleys there are changelings waiting for your arrival, and desperate allies lifting out of dark rocks, cold as light and deep as nerves lovingly severed, rain becoming light, second sight and eros merging into opening the illusion of unnatural hunger, with the horns of an ancestral dilemma: to flood or to ignite... “Veronese, captive cinema, nebulous clots like pools of astrological remedies swirled inside the bodies of decisive incantations... There is only one way into the space that raises the husk of desire out of language, reciprocal breathing burning its way out, and your leap into life presages a skeletal music that fades into the machinery of steam and tiny crystals dressed for an evening of conspiracy...” But always her face, always the dragging of her locks, unlocked by lightning and pressed between two mirrors, charged in the flood of eyes. Twice the number of reasonable doubts, twice the lunar festivities of tripartite grooming dipped in eager manifestations, and the myth of choosing the midst of carbon and dream unleashes the gambling of night against night, in the ether of a desperate imaging... light shapes into dark, cocooning. She unclasps the pendant of her rivaling voice, silences the reclining of a dark murmur, spontaneous combustion ground up into the shadow of a devious plot, an archive of Veronese (her skin has the name of water, sound of lips tasting blood, starlight...) fading into the underground...

XVII You force an exile of telepathic diagrams fused with birds of prey, obscene combinations lighting candles for an evening bath, an onslaught of reflections. Impure was the color of the animal kingdom after a storm, and she was desperate enough to conceal her scent (still spinning in the plaza...), that delicate flaw in the universe picking locks and scattering graphite like words written in milk... Transfixed to zero, aroused to fast moving theatre, the outside compressed to an unsilvering embrace that scuttles back and forth, and emits light, laying the eggs of a continuous tinkering that uses your own voice to reconcile the differences. Now you see it, now you don't... The King and Queen dissolved in a game of chance, in the feverish poetics of a grand scheming catapult into the incest of a summer night’s dream. Time is running on all fours, scribbling on film a sign bursting into flames. Spectre of the body for a spectre in the body, animating the landscape that moves through the language of Impure, and her Siamese in bathing, and the kiss that burns their lips beyond recognition... a species of hide and seek, a glowing vessel that saves the night from itself. Your movements aching with precision are all too secret, all too bright to see.

XVIII The eggs of sense are laid against a conscious fluid, a visible language that violates the cause of things... In your face, your lips capture only food from other mouths, only darkness from other nights. Royal words raise gestures up out of germination, human pleasure ignites. From a furious grinding, consciousness gains momentum, weds madness to organic substances torching symbols out of air and dark corners of vertigo, and follows the forest in nakedness. Light is the chandelier that fills out your curves, breathes into watchtowers that fold precious linens into uneasy solutions, precise connotations. In the harbor of your body, where the horizon turns the vise to please itself, trapping the diamond of an inkling into startling shapes, taunted by the intricate gears of arousal... the brides tripping levers on the verge of extinction. If you are within yourself a desiring of windows, who desires without? Where is the otherness of your shadow’s isolation, whispering to itself, in love with its reflection that cannot be seen, except by accident? “Who goes where, more indiscrete than light? Who sheds light, who kindles light at the furthest point?”

XIX From one city to the next, you avoid capture, placing radiance with prisms breeding in long drawn-out phoenix clothing, multiplying threats like words uttered at random, sending mixed messages... rutting husks, tempting light. Life and death are a series of fictions illuminating an empty library, on a street filled with shadows and breath, in a space reserved for devastation. Your pulse is the triangle of conjuring, the howling rain... A train that is always leaving, always held up by absent-minded ring-bearers, made of destinations and secret directions, kiln-tenders, and dangerous philosophers dismantling theories... she is aware of that dubious background held together in black and white, incredulous to the touch. “Never be deceived by your deceptions, your collaborators...” Threading insects for rotation, Impure was like a diamond in slow motion. At her brightest she enabled phantoms for flight, and enigmatic stares redirecting the fixed angle of imperative escapes. She was the luminosity of your fears, a dark compass. The fury of a vessel enhanced by your name, white-haired djinn, ambiguous nightlight exhausted by wings... a distant aberration of unsettling contents.

XX A golden haze plus the network of perfectly placed vials, plus the words of a language that walks among the living, bright gasps punctuated by thrusts and parries, and the ghostly visage, equals the depth of perception the luminous and dazzling body showers for conscious premonition, the dark ledges that one voice speaks of itself into being, the voice of time, the shadow of space... Not for others, when you are all the others, stepping outside in a glance, alone. Lunar initiations define the angular body’s lathe of emerging spindles, languorous phrases chipping away at chosen probabilities, throwing spokes that quiver with eyelashes to uphold the landscape... Time is falconry in numbers, a sequence that feeds itself, with primal numbers, an increasing hunger for radiant notations, certainties. Siamese is wolf squared by the sight of your self, and memorized, Inuit and Who-Faced in the radium of a moments notice. She regards, loving, violently, a challenge to the standing of stones, the sleepwalker’s balance, lanced with lakes of adversity.... A mirrored image. It is breath that strikes your fancy, with lightning under foot, a silent dance.

XXI The life of a stone is saved by uttering a startled fawn, a pawn in a great move, an ardent battle circling the sun’s shadow, in the first word of your morning, the lifting of mooring, turned to face one’s presence, disturbed by blood, and distributed by renewed winds... A wall of chrysalids, a calabash thrown into consciousness. The sight of a crisis is a walking-stick stirring up the squalor of moonlight. In the riveting of dawn there is only a vague space of abandoned reasons, a very dark Seminole of trembling, a river-light, an orphic cataclysm unraveling the callous paws of your eyes, forcing an ambiguity of tenderness, approaching claws. “But, I can not, see the face, the landing sight...” “Through you, there, seeing light...” “All fireflies, facets of seeing...” “Sharp angles haunting sleep...” Charred hands flowing, arms fording through the window of a precious hybrid distance, landscape with a birdlike river, wolf-bred and riddled with images, stimulating to the touch. Slowly eaten by moths. “You, become transparent, for my eyes...” “Speaking silence...”

XXII You are not resembled by anything whose breathing is not clustered or imagined into actuality, and the morning structure of filaments and inclusions is both the shadow and the reflection that includes your circulation startled by fingers and awkward kisses... Beauty is bathing with knives. Gravity is the sister of a shattered window emitting sirens, northern lights. The grandiose scaffolding between lovers is the darkness of an eclipse. Impure went out swimming last night, attended by narratives and her mercurial fabrics, her teeth igniting water, and still she is not without the savagery of her kind... stalking the entry points, the arrowheads of indiscriminant presence, her offerings and provocations giving life it’s desperate intrusion. Stillborn eminence of minute particles, missing numbers... The thinking body, out-thinks itself, becomes chimera, reanimating the shadows of the city that reflect those bones wrapped in theory. Tomorrow has come and gone. Special poisons from Holland grow mirrors in last resorts. It is enough to endeavor, learning fire and water as a way of life.

XXIII Her hind legs dispel the harp of regrets. The nomadic incisions grow brighter with each passing day, and the sorcerers arrive with precise movements timed to the heights of Aurora, and in the depths of the midnight sun, quickly igniting the soil. Siamese is on her knees when she enters the forest, ravished by mirrors. Impure is a pool she drinks from. Indescribable cells, footnotes of illusion. One step ahead of language, wisely unlearning the information of distraction, of others, placing the exile and the thieves’ den in the middle of a group of words, hysterical worlds, gathering perilous gestures that moan and howl and then destroy themselves... Her innocence releases desperate phantoms, triangles of erotic thirst careening into libidinous X-rays and imaginary positions, polishing bones for music... and during the hours of longing, when dangerous horns are growing wild, those disheveled orphans of indigo ink detach their enticements from the turbulence and bearing of indescribable delights, a conspiratorial transparency imitates the hunger of others. The sun is a risk worthy of your facets, your absolute body of reference. She is a miscalculated solution, a village struck by lightning, insect nuptials on the lathe of sleepwalkers, their faces condemned by veiled introductions.

XXIV Nights roamed the streets, devouring nights lingering in open doorways, giving birth to further nights, precious discords, penultimate nights. The militant iconography of illustrious seashores brought furious duels to light, liberating the succubi of meaningless bliss. Middle English pressed Latin into closed eyelids, where the slip-of-the-tongue lowered itself into the grass to pronounce the object of gathering ghostly syllables, ratcheting the fields up a notch or two, closer to the Spanish border... During these tender months you are never at home, never consulted or confounding. You follow nakedness into hopscotch, raising the spirits...The indigenous lunacies of moth-gambling affairs were set in motion long before the arrival of any language worthy of tender mouths. Your eyes barely opened beyond an assortment of lacustrine gestures, except during feeding time, when you more closely identified with the locksmith and his incestuous pavane... the ill-timed conjuring device. She always led with her hands, and always won the opening gambit. Her dice were loaded. The anesthesia of acquired wisdom knows only the pleasure of a locked armoire. Transparency is the keyless entry, the forgotten fire of a splendid dive captured at its crest, a lightning rod planted in the middle of a kiss that invades your reflection...

XXV Penumbra orchestrates disasters with Salem, while Imago defeats Veronese under a slender sun. Umbra captures Siamese and forces her into glass, bridging the gap between Chaste and Obsidian swimming together in a peripheral and devastating renewal. Feminine pools form a rapid descent into rain... while the structure and the equilibrium between absolute darkness and the restless promiscuity of the glassblower reach a crescent of undivided attention... You continue to pose, dipped in ermine and cylindrical checkmates whirring in the background, sipping elements and multiplying the radiance of a voyage filled with quicksilver and bright red disappearances. A river ouroboros in the distance initiated by the phases of the moon, and rigged up to the birth and death of stars... and other vague species of genius and obsession disrobing in the field. Deception makes the wolf appear more loving than you might otherwise perceive, a weapon against the hours, the hooks that illuminate the wedding gown, dispersed, a wingless, starless gearing, a savage clearing... A gesture is the rapture of a shadow, is mangled light, encaustique magic from the calendar to the fuse. Movement, deployment of transparent objectives, where speed is seduced by light and rendered utterly dark, moving by mirrors through time.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 


XXVI Through which door, between which engraving of messengers, passing through which pale and silent invasion, does movement itself leave watermarks, burnt-out spaces? Threads of her hair floating, leading the blind, her sentences frozen on the lips, vague fires, arrows of envisioning through space... “I cannot feel the source of your fragrance, primitive as earth, but I keep digging and my hands glow deep within you becoming alphabetical and cognitive...” Claws on the door, more ancient than bells striking her face. The message is the doorway resuscitated in passage, haunting the body, deviating from the portrait and the gathering, and the sense of what is nocturnal in all that surrounds you, and what defines your absence in the world, in the fountain-anarchy of a walk through a harem of the indistinct. “The spectral clusters of yielding very fast through a breath of bees, leaves you, my love, with more alternative measures, moving inside to meet the landscape, where consciousness plays with magnetism, where desire confronts desire with a necessary ploy of disgrace. You hold yourself dear to the shuddering of the elements...”

XXVII The locus of transparency is the wake of the shadow wandering among the acrobats in the city of snakes and magnifying glasses, facets groomed with unquenchable thirst. A disturbing inclination is the lioness of doomed hesitations, disheveled wave of lighthouses. In purities a decisive accumulation of light unravels time with peripheral debris that comes to an end with feverish whispering... words spoken in the opposite direction. In the scandals of the scarab, spreading your veil, opening it with kisses... and hers, in the machinery of those dream-shaped mythologies and (“Shhh...” ) those breast-strokes wandering the streets at all hours, bearing fruit and unsettled daughters, bright eggs, incisions bearing down on the valves that separate the desire for what to see from the desire for arrival of the most opportune, in a room not far from night... the orphan night scavenging for desperate hands. Each desirable passage follows the despair of nameless beauty, glowing.

XXVIII There is no question worthy of its answer, if no reflection powers the central turning outward from the hive and it’s phantom furnishings, turned by good fortune into charred remains, transfigured by lightning into spectral degrees of loving discord. You share the distinction of honey and wax glowing like wildfires, turning over words of animosity, night-words of desire. “I love you in all this harsh and exacting beauty of resistance...” The guardians of the gate are the envelopes of desire, fountains of napalm translating cairn dialects over-running the coveted space of a painful pause: for your pleasure, however ladled, or measured, however charmed, there is only the future entrance. A fictitious harmony superimposed over lost techniques and patinas, with violence as fresh as the bright red glass of the air approaching the inner saplings of your abandoned gravity. The image of your permanence is a vague recitation, an ancient growth. Dawn moves in those vagrant tattoos, with unbelievable greed validating your unnatural history veiled under mirrored alleys, the body hidden by the forest, thrown up against stone, a devastating reciprocity... Your glance is the gate swinging perpendicular to the quaking of those tectonic caresses rummaging around at the edge of consciousness. The shadow of eyes leaves no source of extinction unturned. In the center of a gathering, the reclining nudity of Florentine possessions stalks the attractive twins of reason and treason, twin sparks in the concave expectation of erogenous pilfering... petals unwrapped by foraging.

XXIX She allows for those moments of disgrace, offering the solace of a disreputable nature merely to trigger affections in unusual spaces. The moist hinges release their promiscuous trails of radiant slime, membranes humming, the unbelievable swoop of the swimmer taking life into her own hands. It is a human essence that burns out the natural elements enchanted by the mucus of a vision in the jaws of a nubile mirror, darkened by wolverines and seductive traps... Her hands blurred in dark gloves, clutching a black transparency with unexpected carnal stones thrown blindly into a frightened window. You disappear into her surrender to salacious absence, following a set pattern of disruption, as cobalt powder is to the nearness of the sun, infinite space is to her voice demanding more. The world was her fierce buzzing of clues, an unbiased release of vernal liquids, more hyacinth than coal, but like coal, as hard to resist as unbridled migration. Obsidian spreads her legs over the offering of wakefulness, hunting and gathering for origin, marking her territory, striking flint against time growing outwards... Her thrusting silences light, redirects the veins of darkness.

XXX In the photograph there are imperceptible changes, where the wedding night is dragged ashore, impoverishing the city outside of language... Streetlights of an empty street, following one impression after another, emulsions poured over a site of spirits wrenched out of radiant annotations. You will encounter a languishing discourse, a field of inexact but significant clairvoyance timed to the amorous betrayal of retinal positions. The sundial covers your image. A site of anemones lured out of vague psychologies, monoliths bearing the burden of your eyelids. A slow desolate procession of empty gowns ignited with lunar poppies extracted with scalpels out of rudimentary speech... animal lace grooming the weightless body-ghetto of elements, signaling an astronomical coupling, a multiplication of desirable moments. To salivate uncontrollably is to stimulate the glands of a gifted perspective, a key in an envelope sliding under the door. The distance between light and dark punctuates a fertile X... a means of duplicating the attractions that compel an isolated alchemy through the urge of expelling deeper colors, and a longer lasting sense of convulsive equilibrium. “I have come to see you, passing through, a wild and fatal caress...”

XXXI A theatre of phantoms striking a chord, and a bright cistern of night-less nights, outlasting reality by desire, thrusting alembics against the jugglers in a dream that is not a dream, through a horse no longer a desert without sparks... Bound with tusks and skin of glass, night-milk weighed on the scale of opened mouths, a groping in blindfolds, the twelve angles of light off the executioner’s smile, the jeweler’s knife in love with fire, a reindeer princess enslaved by antlers, a sinister détente, to raise the table... the spirit of a voluminous glance, torn out of the ground and spun around on golem-wheels, desiring to pull reckless mornings out of a hat. At last, on looking aside, the last time you were more than just your expectations, the antipodes of the book of ashes scattered for your voice, to overshadow a dark flood inside of another, out of others loved or denied, conquering space through tremendous eyes... Aurora is the challenge of Salem, and the natural history between Inuit and Chaste, an animal bonding, arousing a discordant solar system of unknown origins, an opening for the vanishing act, the conspiratorial mimicry and quintessential devastation of an evening stroll, and the fuse of a lock of someone’s hair... “Quick, they are coming... time to leave!” and “A solitary figure is a single drop of sunlight...” “Last night he dreamed of Obsidian, and she begged him to do violence to her image...”

XXXII The immense glass of an enigmatic desiring-device, a darker landscape shifting between intuition and detachment, and you gasp at presence shifting underneath itself... The side of your face attending vials of captured water. Being and awareness switch chairs, fumbling for precision. You press for the enchantment only distant shoulders can bear, stooping for the ease that somnambulance brings to the enrichment of foreign matters, wise and confounding matters, the fluid of your eyes terracing for a solar web that often resembles that well-known dancer, the solitary figure 8, and the forking of evolving personae during sleep, flooding dimensions, where the axis mundi and the coatimundi cling to your breath... Life, hallucinating in the grass, a few whispered words of startling awareness spread over the body, warping the fleece and catapulting vestiges of distance and measurement outside of memory... “I know you only by your exquisite taste, lunacy at odds, daughter of dusk, brightest doorway. Your eyes grooming the hemorrhage of uncharted directions, half-truths glowing in the corner of a room without sentences... The map is a useless voice in touching ground.” Desperation is a harp burning a tribal discourse into a cinematic curtain call.

XXXIII Your beauty follows the earth in lost causes, the awe and savagery outside of beauty, the rash trembling of a sudden kiss, the lilies of the abyss, the wandering nomadic sister-like abyss of the torch, darkening light, spirals into those heavy objects pulled out of even heavier sleep. She left only a series of numbers, a sequence of entrances, a gambling façade of intentions, an unusual ladder, an empty shell like a veil. Lucidity of the horn. In a brightness that astounds the sight and breath of infinite bodies, heavenly bodies ground up into a handful of words, the molecules of reality attacking the wind, a vagrant dissidence. Wolf-light, a vast reservoir of incessant whispering and feverish pointing. The animals will always come to your space of aleatory feasting, a clashing of medieval cultures dining on blood for spirit, in cowls made of smoke as orchid and blue as notebooks secluded with invisible notations, erotic encounters, ambiguous powers exchanged, starless limbs... A dark water falling, a city of voyeurs rising, an anteroom for a prism. Archaic and savage lamp, your face, is night desired.

XXXIV Light or stone, memory or knife, a kiss or the needles of rain? The heaviness of light precedes the depth of your scrolling, your reflection passing through the mirror, facing a fresh body of distance and resemblance. A mouth between ravens... In a word that outlines the eyelids, a dark word, a wild, sinuous word that touches the earth with every step, in every direction. You fold light between your lips, passing darkness through resuscitation, opening a window that cannot be seen... in the harsh, brittle shimmering, a slender glance without substance. In the many of you pursuing, and 300 years in either direction, the hounds baying for sight, seeing dark for the inside of desire, love as black, fire as black, as altered, near as the depths of another wilderness, coal crushed into shimmering glass of uncanny reflections, infancy passing through... A history of hands fondling for prey, with paws heavy as an iron door killing green tulips. Out of the circle into presence, from the trance out of ritual objects, for the sea of exceeding shadows, into light-exchanging devices and places, bring the gift of sight reversed into splinters glancing. A grand nocturnal morning hatching a form of absence that arrives without warning... a dance of dervishing.

XXXV Anticipation runs wild near the center of the honey-generating hive, on a street of near misses. A fanciful presence, the animal that comes close to lick your mouth, inhale your breath, to bridge those gaps in the ground of silence... To articulate the triangle of possession is to unthread your eyes. Angora, mandragora, ink-light spilled and treading consciousness, desire only activates the jealously guarded and deep-seated fingering of fatal presence, ravishing absence... the snarling continues far into the night. She is perfect in her displacement, purloined, and hissing. Your last known address bathing the always-pristine nakedness of well-placed detonations carries the fullness of another dark screwing of light into focus... and she might not be there when the coat of arms casts an assuming hegemony over pleasure interrupted by sirens and reindeer appearances. Night histories, phantom psychology, animal leading sound into water and lowering arms with earth, disfigured by scent. She took you to the place of silence and left you to your intuition, sparks burning in the fur of innocent victims lighting up the council of cranes and brilliant schemes. Your disguise is perfect, the animals gather in groups to open the cabinets of wind, unveiling nudes.

XXXVI The ledge of love is a series of desperate images roaming under inhospitable colors, against lineage and distortion. Ligatures and evasive measures bordering on hoaxes and fine precise lines etched with a phantom style, leaning in as close as possible, breathing heavy, tearing out a handful of cries and opals... to disable, to incite a bed like a Venus Flytrap, to marquis best wishes, to vampire a children’s game, to pierce and injure, to perceive the splendid crystal of an empty street, to werewolf language embedded in the landscape... Light is an impurity polished by lucid dreams. Early in the morning I love the glow of bathing lunatics; in the evening there is always the mirror lit up like a bonfire. A sudden flower masks your appearance for a chalkboard of crossed-out words and ambiguous web-shaped pronouncements. Your evening gambits assume the predilections of secretive heists. They do not even understand the thrilling exploits, the deadfall between ledges, or the slander of disbelief leveled against all that does not uphold the savagery of beckoning mystery. You are the destination of being other than yourself. The turmoil of nobility allows light through the struggle of its agile solitude. “Speak, black spires, capture fire!”

XXXVII The citadel of ferocious gestures, turning into quicksilver... In your choice of attractions, the flow of desperate words fondles centuries of doubt: or that which means when sorrow has the grimace of jasmine, pain lifts her dress just enough to catch sight of that prism between light and dark. Hummingbirds sipping from the silence of your mind, reverse the direction of sleep. A face of glyphs uproots the scrawlings of time, while rappelling the coven of distinct features, the sea salt of blood in the rain when it shines, announces the advent of a moments notice and the green bottles of a distinct resolution, an amorous scent hammered into the cloth of refusal. The mysterious quality of another is only imagined. The mystery of life is a risky gamble, an unavoidable anomaly battered by rams... The geometry of Horus, like the hidden lake of adolescence, follows the twoheaded cipher balancing on the horizon of not knowing which direction makes the most sense, but the most irregular procession of angular shadows inside pale robes led by lightning.

XXXVIII She leads by snakes through the book of consciousness, playing with hazardous strings of association and possession, and dissident intricacies, wrenched into a cat’s cradle of Sumerian cloaks and daggers. Her fluids altered the calendar of clans and rites, and intimate wasps. A bride’s dance approached tree-consciousness. She crept beside your shadow, an eclipse of knowledgeable gestures... Daylight jars the cry of the animal, for the animal spirit germinating in the earth whose words are tearing flesh for sunlight, and “I have loved your ancient wiles more than my own, perfect process, loping through the blindman’s witch, ticking feverishly in the chamber of arrows. Your heart fills me with blood... We incite anthracite, in the day-jars of conscious estuaries.”
A vague caress emulates the siege of fictions in the hovering of an isolated figure, in a mirror of leopards and ancient wisdom set in guilds, the fog moving with a cane, to a mythical moment sleeping in fire. The marksman chooses his target with beauty in mind, and the flower of an irreversible desire, for arousal, the metronome of an aching arc lost in the storm. Angora is armored for the feast by fading into nursing glass, her shadow stalled, refusing to move, her stone ridges mimic the alignment of stars.

XXXIX A dark stranger and the pale distress, or a vagrant season... The clarity of not seeing, but perceiving what cannot be seen, the kneading of that scent upon our bodies from the sun in the field of erased memory, pawing the ground, illumined... Ojibwa is a prescient occultation. A wolf-enabled creature of sublime cutlery, and her sign language is a foundry of numerous dimensions, geared and winged, yet slovenly dressed in early morning light, a ravishing descent. The fair rose perturbing eros in smoke through your body, under a coat of perceptive unreasoning, the honeycomb of stairways leading to women’s voices in the dark, where daylight flows in the river, where Ojibwa uncoils, enfolds, splintering, for the absent you that brings to recognition the sound of her voice. The beating of the crystal that bathing brings to recurring dreams... spinning a web of unnatural tales. The veil of the gate, the poisoned caress, the veils of a backward glance, the séance of curare and her precious bridal gown, the Abyssinian ink. The royal motors that arouse the underground analogies – between the dramatis personae and the invisible keyhole... The involuntary trembling with the angelica of your body, the bee swarm in the room of living, past the hour.

XL A voyage underfoot knows only the shadow of no return, only the movement of night through its curtains. The mythology of a presence reflected in the open doorway, like a moment of clairvoyant wandering, brings to the fore a sense of being here by chance, a multiple of one. Falling from a great height resembles the rising thread of absence. A black salamander is the cry of a compass when it ignites the word that describes it, the definition that obeys it and moves contrary to it’s nature. What is most pure in the darkness of imaginary solutions is that which kills with grace, covets with resolution and blood, exchanged, for the utter stillness of stopping to breathe. To catch one’s breath is the new moon. To regurgitate light is the end of time.

XLI In your appearance, mirror-image, fortunate vessel, keeled by space... What is it that most resembles your appearance? What analogy to your delirium attracts the landscape that bleeds from your eyes? The draftsman’s notations gain the momentum of an illusion that delivers out of its perception the nature of covert actions. In light of a crisis night opens its arms, and the child reflects itself upon itself a rare anomaly, a hole in the sun the size of language... A bonfire in the night filled with the froth of hunger, the glimmer of pleasure. “It is the rapture of my identity that sleepwalks through your body from both sides of a forested fragment of space. The flaws are perfect in their abundance, and from a distance appear for your eyes out of nowhere with the finality of a feverish grappling, an embrace wrapped in stilts, the dark season’s dark animal... You are most amazing, my love, in the fabric of your surrender, your winning stroke of luck...” Torn between windmills you choose the approach of stealth. To extreme measures... your face breeds a ghostly magic, a ship from the windows walking, an interruption of asymmetrical seduction.

XLII The sea is a great wall of chairs, when it moves within the recitation of your body-script, thrones for the Master of disguises, a wall of witches dancing, the luxurious hair of a gyroscope that spins the sense of presence into an absence that swims, lighting corners out of boredom, and symmetry. Intersecting waves of consciousness. Not a sign for what leads to an entrance, but the entrance itself through which signs pass, your passing, renouncing any such position or name between your double and the sun, between life and night... A narrative to the extent of desirable objects, a text written in the fire of an extinct species. The hidden table of a hummingbird arcing, or was it a vulture speared, or a grandfather clocked, a fatal dose of something unavoidable... Or, how to interpret what one discovers, without destruction, without unreasonable distortion. Except by the ghost of a chance, the tenderness of a savage. By force or by desire, burning the stake.

XLIII Sinister sleeps with the sense of her extinction, and the blackness of her fleece tears a canyon through the city of no regrets, and her clown makes light out of dancing, rattling her solemn veils of instinct, wrapping flesh around great barges that flower in sudden embers, taunting caresses. You are drawn by her breath on pieces of glass, a pathway through sirens of abandon. The phoenix in the shape of a triangle is the sea kneeling beneath the black cloth of a reindeer procession, a chandelier of scented idols coming through the mirror, arrogant and nailed with roses, overwhelming odds, violent with love demanding potions... positions. She kneels to voodoo the circulation of stars and cryptic messages inside your objects, a text outside of the city. To part the filth of miracles... a river that floods life. Now it is time, without distance, only a skull measured against earth. Light, embalmed, the nest of a great bird screeching. Blue, obedient and primal, gives its consent to a very dark red, undulating in a far-off golden residue heated beneath a tiger’s paws.

XLIV The constellations follow in the evening caress, the jewel-maker’s dearest cousin, apprentice to the heretic scholar, and the one “spreading her limbs” for your rebirth as the hourglass of a nightmare, becomes the night and the mare at this moment in an undesignated space not ending anywhere, homeless with good reason, and surrounded by unintelligible languages. She has not come to this place to shed her body, but she exceeds her particles in whispers, occults the facets that never cease to paralyze and reproduce more twins than words. For this reason, it is your pleasure to intervene with mayhem and limitless plummeting. The storms humming in brilliant chrysalids. The women delivering statues to the stage of an agonizing transference. The night raped by the mare, bright hinges accommodating the passage of festivals, eggs arriving by blind messengers. A fission of rubbing pyramids generates the encoded poses of those who have forgotten their names, the art of escape and discovery. There is a shadow generated by a dream, and it spins by desire alone... A letter filled with candles, your lips sealed with wax, a fresh morning.

XLV Solemn is the swimmer lost on land, and her sunlight is a broken piano in an empty room, an insatiable weapon... She is the interpretation of the sea, a body reclining for the crossbow. The storm returns to it’s dark recesses, back to coincidence, the wind full of stars and names, feral constellations, awakening the almost, the barely, the endlessly inevitable arriving, that insidious point of no return and its delightful chaperone, its persistent translator. Together they approach the key forbidden the lock, and the last SOS of the fog rubbing itself in the word murmuring. The luminous sense of a city reluctant to the chemistry of Solemn, who shimmers uncontrollably, who turns her wheels according to the feathers that speak around you, reflect those almost wrenching intaglios slipping so easily into receptive motives, flesh colored, childlike crematories of sibylline gestures guiding the auras of strangers... She is the interpretation of shadows living in moments of forgetfulness. The interpretation of random acts of unreason.

XLVI The long black vase descending those long primitive limbs with calibrated steps lit up by a pure insight, an unrivaled instinct on a level with the storyteller’s invisible siblings. No identity is better than a bird on the tongue, or is it the other way around? Your departure is the beginning of an eclipse. A moonlit night is a gathering of spirits, a field of fangs under a hawk for shelter, a splendid hat for long voyages bound to others for concealed power, burning between themselves, playing on the word evidence painted with ashes. There is no sense to the merging of features, where flame is the ghostly clay imbued in the bathing rituals of eager question marks dipped in dream fluid... She wraps herself to you, bound by enormous silences, the other, licking her inevitable petals, spell-binding, abiding... Crawling with threads, she is nameless. Lighting up her body from the inside, she is a kingdom of hallucination. Distilled by reflections gathering stones, bearing rumors, she is grazing light. Striking, she swallows life.

XLVII It is with liquid that the original discourse of your eyes should uncover lost objects, archaic voices and the shrill duplicity of an engaging departure. In the library there are ashes cruel as words, and fiery genomes of a fictional nature that entice the suits of armor out of lethargy and bodiless rendezvous. Push against pull, up against the other, passing through with unrelenting force... Your pedigree is far more unforgiving than slate, and bloodlines are blurred but more crystalline than any labyrinthine sentry seeking entry into the haphazard games of “all or nothing”, “Take me, I’m yours”, or the famous: “Sliding into a dream takes less effort than slitting a throat...” It is the ruthless assault that compels a poetic doctrine into an aberration of indistinct features, subterranean passports and sublimely brutal kisses bursting into a scent of jasmine... She leaves a haunting outline surrounding a crime scene, a perfected crime, a fluid gesture of an inarticulate alliance with undeniable wonder. A cluster of words moving through strangely delicate bodies arrives at the fountain in the galaxy of a landscape, unloading precious stones, blonde spectacles for divination, and final dictations.

XLVIII The lamentation of unspecified processions, face to face, mouth to mouth, follows the mythology of those apparitions from the 14th century, the impeccable ones still receding from a future dereliction of acculturation, according to a certain manuscript, in a South American dialect, near the city of self-portraits and conspiracies. Damp and angular, ingesting silence... When water enters mirror, movement is violation of space, inherited. When breathing stops it is fulfilled in the mouth devouring transparency. Dark intelligences are renegade gestures. Insect maneuvers bleed in empty beds filled with light. The doppelganger of a keening dementia growing a matrix of crystal out of which is broadcast the lingering doubts, the fashionable desecrations and delicacies so cherished by scribes and others touched. Tribal orchids ascending the wall. A dancing girl riding shotgun... Radiant with the cloth of knives, you are indistinct from her in harsh quarries, with breeding measures ravishing what beauty comes to offer, and steal away, eating darkness. This morning, especially before light, the hours are cleansing the meridian of horns battling the open doorway. Cognition confronts the excited breathing of others as an oasis of grotesque helmets divining for hidden bodies. The human halo is the victim that eludes capture, lunging face-first into lightning.

XLIX In spite of your death, rumors to the contrary persist. Above the militant riverbeds a solar-door opens and closes with a troublesome whistling that unsettles the hounds... Distillations wander the streets at all hours, while the submissive females sharpen their weapons. For all that, time is a liquid that evaporates when heated into separate scales of awareness. No identity is more favorable than the knowledge of secret societies... The machinery of birds teaches the stealth of forests, while the abyss is laced into waterfalls of distant longing and brideless veils, and pale substances opening windows, executing their misadventures with a furious 120 days of grieving. The innocence of the predator is shooting stars into black tresses aping for attention. To kill properly, with a moral stance worthy of magical delight, you must be prepared to bring them back to life again... Time fractures where conscious immersions prevail, ferocious interventions.

L “I am not here... but hearing you there. Shadows move your eyes, taking risks, dispersing seeds in a vision not far from here... I see your reflections taking root... Asleep in radiance, a black fountain of a planetary kindling so deeply embedded in the house of sparks, I bring your angles into spawning, in more rapid awareness, a multiple of three, a multitude of foreign words...” “I am the threshold of all that desires you... yourself, I am, beside you, an earthly lewd and speculating cipher... Your glass of looking. The foam of your enormous howling, exhaling time, consciousness... the amazement of sacrificial stone, dreaming stone... fire of stone, stoning fire for the facets of continuous reflection...” “I am the presence of bewitchment, the hide and seek of a masque of games and kinship burials... Only the dispossessed, the dreamer changing places with dawn, the erasure and the many-leveled, the written bleeding, the statue copulations and enfilading relent of power, recharged by eminence of one word over another, the velocity of desirable accessibility, the vulnerable revolver unable to swim, the diving light, the hidden dark... The rest is history, concealed by childbirth.”

LI The soluble face washed up against the mirror, dragging the moon behind like a distant relative, an expression of ambiguous natures beguiling the rabble of rocks and emerald reddening in an optical bath. You invert the expressions of a fly-by-night prism, bathing color in the reverse psychology of dwelling environs all akimbo, all zuni and zemi. The eggs of the interior are whispering and bright... Azul is sleeping with Salem tonight, and Imago is the element of kings seduced by pawns, in the negative double image of a talismanic promenade on the rumination of amulets... her sister is spawning in the silence... she plays with her serpents. Claws are grooming the earth for entrances. The waif of reckless vistas invades the irony of memory eclipsed by endless places. Who is not the element of surprise, but the sense of invasion when why tangles with when and checkmates into incendiary dances, wailings and illusive sentences. Breathing makes the pleasure principle a replication of dreaming fluids.

LII Azul, shimmering. The ghost of a chance... She is lurid with joy and bell-faced, and oval as a distinct shadow of distance in glowing water, she sleeps the gown of awakening... The blood of whispering casts the body of luminous silences, she is the spell of webs emblazoned for evening streets, and the sea of clothing, the fever of heretic gestures flowering into a crawl... Those statues in the garden moving out of sight, inciting to fuse with fog, a dance deeper than a word, a spoken dream... For sooth, the Azul is ringing, she answers with moaning in her scenting rituals... the tide follows the briding of a solitary glance, shipwrecked and treasured beyond relief... Constellations of the mother-tongue. Azul, scattering birds, tender mouths... A bridal for the evening running, a tooth for the hounds.

LIII The brides glow triangles out in the garden, sleeping the horizon. The slender parallels circumvent the sexuality of forest thrones navigating the four earthly seasons. The brides hovering inexplicable delights, offer tyranny and haunt for finishing touches... Night-embedding brides. A melodramatic solstice aligns itself with heavily varnished helmets and brilliant poses. The anxieties of purebred trysting-machines sistered by eyes of liana and opiate, assimilated by the twinkling of ashes having memorized their fire... A handful of thirst, secretions of subliminal movement, jumping through the window of sublime interruption, tearing bricks out of light. The eyes together in one fell swoop, dislodge the constellations to engender obscene gestures worthy of a Countess, a premonition or an indecisive body salamandered by the witch-maker’s totem. Life and death are grinding the imperfections out of mystery. An eager exchange of fluids for a candle dipped in wolf’s blood...

LIV Hanging fire by its word, between conjuration and fertility, when evening enters morning in layers, with antithesis and quartz, and flickering eyelids, ovulating in the ambiguous qualities of who one becomes and why... who becomes one with why... Neither the end result, nor the precise coordinates are the pinpoints of having coalesced with certainty, with analogy, and the white paws of a personal darkness clamoring up the stairs... never to be forgotten. The scalpel is humming in tune to the closing of your eyes... The royal coat of horses keeps the secret away from the language that would dismiss it, where it gestates and skitters among evolving senses, lush with those absolute manes of yearning and sabotage. You spin your space rapidly around, bursting with ravens, and insect lip-syncing in the waking flood... forcing silence into fire. There is no family portrait other than the whispering of those watery birds of paradise grinding up the pigments of lost children roaming the countryside in search of their brightness... their hunger, their orphaned reflections. Fire is the landscape of a great mirror faced in darkness... Howling at the source, drinking.

LV The sun is green with envy for the useless beauty of certain creatures, and certain expectations, and Sinister dissolves ahead of herself, often sun-like and ruled by moments of childish greed. When the world returns to the inside of your body, to the bell-tower of your husk, there is only the war of pearls for the sea... She reflects your distinctions, and the kleptomania of your outrageous bearing, searching for those gem-like glances ripping silence into unimaginable cities enlightened by the anxiety of waking up, breathless and aroused. Agonizing alignment, stalled dust, stilled between frames, stoned by tiny magicians suddenly arriving in great numbers. Her benevolent bearing exceeding Spring thaws, melts the narcotic of her lips, the soma and sema, the sudden nearness of ocelot, after centuries of dwelling in shade and apothecaries, divided by illusion and demiurge flowers, the flesh and blood of the minotaur’s bilingual self-image, the off-shoot of poetic mayhem. To force the projectory between this moment of waking and the area of awareness on the hidden side of the horizon, the flow of your presence topples the heaviness of being not far from landing, departing, passing through any other who stops to admire that unspeakable hush hush of a night destroyed by kisses, the shuddering of the invisible theatre repelling the swans of perilous silvering. She dies in your shadow, scattering windows...

LVI “My seeds are scattered to the yearning of the earth, into the known, my eggs open the universe, light is flowing. Darkness glistens in after-thoughts, burning for your eyes the after-hours, slumbering into periodic episodes, consciousness adrift in space...” Wind, birth of crystal. To affect the universe, rearrange the vessels according to the primal numbers of your birth. Even in the dead of night, stones, wind, stars, objects, talking to themselves. Everything is whispering, and conjuring, identities, sublime rapture of being erased by light. “I will destroy all that belongs to us alone, and they will never know the passage of that great bird releasing it’s splendid fires. Pyre of a pure shrill cry, diamond for a bloodied center, an animal seeing in your direction. We remain barely terrestrial, the endless urging of desire...” “There is no signature here, I have been erased. Only the fine dust of erasure illuminates the obscene glance caressing the body of night breathing. The sun then, loping mirage of incessant auras...” The grace you mistake for a clown’s entrance has taken years to perfect, a windup doll, a priceless portrait, a vague sense of “Who goes there?” and the whispering of children under the table. The dream is dreaming of itself, multiplying, breeding...

LVII Desire is the wolf and the wolf-like creatures hanging by their threads. You find by nimble light with venison a life among mimicking denizens. Tongues giving off the glow of captive omens, lighted, poisons passed from mouth to mouth, and beautiful women fearing their own reflections among the rafters, prefer the feast of ambiguity and feverish grace. The wolf grooming her whispers, eaten only at dawn, and always at a distance. There are also oranges in Romania, and weavers that make sadness an occasion to celebrate, and shadows there that glow in the dark like lovers and statues... Love between ghosts, hourglass of shadows disrobing time. Apparitions on the edge of a word... Power is rearranged for pleasure, reassigned, appropriated, and made plenary for exacting analogies. The beckoning stone is always a King, while the deftly wrapped object of unconditional love pillages the awkward sense of being mated. Initiates of the priestess-word drive useless cultures into hiding... Only the exile knows for certain where the margin of error indulges the conjuring of solitudes. Cooing is allowed only in the presence of chaos, as a tincture of amusement. A game without mercy, transforming the narrative between acquisition and denial, worlds moving the spirit of arson, through bodies arcing...

LVIII The city like an earthquake flowering in the sheer exhaustion of depth and assault, inhalation of dimension, the steeple of your ribs granting asylum to crimes joyfully regarding the incision of wings, the affect of sundials slandering your face, the joy of grazing, and gazing recklessly for however long it takes, until night consumes you... Menacing nearness shudders with inescapable light, disturbing calculations, the brilliant conclusions on the verge of despair, the pleasure of phantoms dancing between mirrors. Through this and that belonging to a ruling and willing atmosphere of sudden expectations, the air is swirling cornerstones and imaginary crests, in a loam loaded with backward herons staring, precious herons foreshadowed and glanced with spindles in feminine hands, for Dutch interiors, chained with loving masks. The pale and disheveled flint-spine of any goddess worth her words, the swaying carriage of ancestors interrupted, to illuminate the doors of ornate recitations saturating the scarves worn by beggars and virtuous lepers, obscure androgyny of sight unseen, rebis lantern, sipping river from your mouth. If you persist unfailing, blind assassin, your praises will be daughters. And you can hear light breaking barriers and marking its territory. Till living parts matters with primal numbers, light becomes you, and pulls the trigger.

LIX A woman’s mouth is the perturbation of a vengeful moment of pleasure, a singular instance of absolute distraction, a clamoring pictology of long forgotten names and important dates scratched on bone, looming. Not a kiss so much as a wound teased and spread open again for sipping moths, these trembling analogies. A violent slumber intercepted. Heron is the sister of Perihelion and the shifting of eggs, she is the conscious mescaline of disturbing patterns, sudden visitations, seductive pauses. In her evasions, she is a plumage of high degree, a sudden change of plans, the imprint of owls on the glass of a coveting glimpse. A sketch of being touched, altered. In the valley there is the tiger veiled according to the words used to describe the veiling of women: kaolin, wacke and loam, and there are violins rigged up to the iodine of a field arrayed with sirens, lightning-rods, elemental conjuration, black filigree of whimpering bees, a golden bridle, the cursing of words, the changing of the guard, the Queen’s youth and the King’s plundering, a city not far from here, the waterfall of a mouth taking forever to open... An infinity of speculation dressed in slips-of-the-tongue, where the insects feed, hemorrhaging between pauses, dew-shaped nuptials. The landscape sets fire to your nakedness, tearing apart the city, assuming consciousness.

LX In the house of salamanders, in the vase of unnatural gestures, in the sleepwalker’s gown of shimmering fits and starts, the hive is layered and eclipsed by one obsession after another, one gear interlocked by another powering the wing and the mirror. Your face, the water spirit, timepiece... Movement is the angular dimension of thorns burning against a damp web of bones and graceful rituals twirling overhead in an earthly rain of early cypress. A phantom consciousness appears in the inexplicable hollow of a fumbling caress, nevertheless, an heroic gathering of branches. An unmistakable reverberation between unfinished actions and insufferable presence. The cunning miner redirecting luxurious veins for the amusement of the species. The mystery upstream, the bodies of pollen rewarding night, making it speak in the language of its kin, the older nights. The intimacy of shadows coaxing blood out of starlight. Your dissonance from a great distance, the sound of recognition. The fluttering of a jellyfish signals the crown of distraction, a moment in time between the ocean and a dream. Waking from words.

LXI “I would give a certain desperation, a cunning... I would give, I would relinquish a devious germination, for your droning, I would, with the image red hanging in the air, for the shape of your ancestors, the tremulous ones, the ones filling in the blanks...” She is the hound licking... She is, the curve of the spine flickering, threading illusive through the fog, communicating with hooves, taking your breath by surprise and delightfully opening it up just a little more, allowing anger its riverbed, silence its language. The anatomy of Delirium reaches a shore disheveled by Aura, and the childlike damages of Significant Others, polishing Dilemma, who repeatedly reaches behind herself, pulling shadows out of Raven, who has long since departed... “a glowmen fon’t in, august’a showe-n...” Neither that One nor the Other, in extreme utterance passing through, lit up by lightning from the inside, intimate phosphor and stitched up by fog, she could be haunted by your shame, the faint rituals of your flow, the language imploring and the violence of your giving in. Presence. She could be haunting... “For ‘m ina forag ay, a goloam in aglowen, he’yin owlmon, weir a gow-n al lit?”

LXII

Intimacy with the natural scales of forethought, when cut into numerous angles, in the focusing of your eyes to the point of extracting a diamond out of stone, but even more centered than before, maze-veiled and out of place. Placing a séance of water in its more luminous aspect. Thorning light, spokeless and turning by desire alone. Ghost-mute and dark inside, there bleeds a robber throat, casting throes with flood, and a calculated risk. And perhaps a wolf breathing light... You close in on an assemblage of perpetual masquerades, and invent sinister homages, adorations and wedges of utopian intervals, placing your bet on the gasping of windmills spinning time in great unorthodox circles. The pieces that recede into mediumistic wishing bones, those infamous spark-gathering orphans that gather dust and endless pleas. Time has a way with yesterday, crouching in arcane astonishment. The daughter of glow-worms painting portraits of mysterious females and the reindeer’s ghostly double, all perfectly cracked like glass, like an intrusion, like a flight into the obscurity of uncharted whispering. A slight touch on the shoulder, the movement of an affair between invasion and emanation, the pitch of bone against bone, faces merging in the moisture of a single word chosen among all the others. A vampire word...

LXIII The witch, whispering of the earth, and the ilium of a curse undoing the distance between the infinitesimal and the humorous, the cloak and the disappearance, when it invades, and the tracery of a wing... Angelica spreading her petals, the insoluble sadism of the pendulum. Fissures in every direction illumine the ruby’s wolf. The raven’s violet chemise antagonizes the entry into the landscape, moving in close, by ermine light, taking down the distance between revolt and your own reflection in stone, a face, a great height. It is twice the circumference of the moon. This is the meaning of a moth and it's candle. Clarity is often a flower burning a table out of a corpse, an immoral sense of having secretive codes, acknowledgements of a tentative gambling, a mere walk in the park. The spores of wild animals, the crawling of your flesh. Words like landmines.

LXIV The sense of mystery fills in the gasps, the solar cabinets rattling, while the alchemist sleeps, the dream reoccurs in Spanish and a childish glow unveils the witch marks, the feral stones, when the bride devours her shadow... There is always an X followed by savage caresses. A kiss that evades its reflection. Silence without blood is unknown. Your presence is the spindling of the hour, a loping and incandescent absence. Clairvoyance is language... There is no effortless sense of a name, there is only the glass from numerous places, the nudity of silence, the blackness of clothing from growing and living things. The linen of erotic space, the bee stinging into being without, taking advantage of your innocence with a branding iron. The carnivorous clavichord is milking the stone, planting words in the cry of that breathless oval valley between Oneness and Otherness, without fate, only the lathe of sleeping pilots, timepiece of distant arcs. Your presence is only a myth, a perversion of light on water. An endless task. The shuttle of missing the target, the entropy of touching leaves, with burnt fractals, dazzling, devouring, distant, damaged, but fused... for the photograph that fades in your surrender. Darkness is a form of destiny, or a complex of strange behaviors defying gravity and the sea.

LXV Silence is hanging from her ankles, inaugurating the wedding night with the rapture of heavy petals and disheveled moorings. The secrets are not concealed, from the loon that eludes and offers those tall surging rafters for processions of ghostly figures with useless meanings. Silence is disrobed... Loon offerings... The glaze of light is haunting the bell-rooms where Silence shudders and lives out her life in splendor. She dies in your arms, spreading the gold of latent words, projections of the given, windows withheld, bursting in telepathic fields, licking your branches. There has been for some time a condition of desperate longing at the outskirts of town, in the periphery. A rose hawk, a hook. An invasion of unfamiliar objects surrounding each separate word spoken... and brilliant seductions go unnoticed. An errant rook, a lock broken. She is entwined, that silver cup of heavy petals, hanging from the trees with the threat of immanent fire. Threat of disaster and moonlight. One among many. Heresies of pleasure. What is revealed remains unknown. The ocean forms a sigh like those glittering necklaces of unexpected discord... Silence resembles the catalogue of unnatural positions, her masonry of alternating currents, her zodiac. Threat of hazard, wind of shadows like windows hexed by lost ways and means slippery with elm, heavy with moccasins and light slipping into the sea... Nothing to see but Silence walking in her sleep, chipping flint with her eyes.

LXVI The three angles of disproportionate interventions, the mercury of erotic hallucination that overcomes the adversity of not knowing which crystals to touch, in which direction, withering branches to stake sorcery, in the riverbed, striking gold. Light is convulsing in the corner, with all the anxiety of a virgin calliope holding her breath... She bled loons of secrecy and illusion, and offered you your top hat and regal coat by sleight of body. A grand placement of hands. A single gesture more primitive than language. She forms her body and her body’s hex. It’s in the cheekbones, set to fire, a bright green, the moon, clawing. Lunacy weeps as she burns her name and the hour of her demise into your shadow, beneath your eyelids, she is but a single hour of your time, endless concept of presence edging outside of conscious recognition.

LXVII You spread the dark areas of your incestuous murmuring, pulling the sea up into the opened womb of night, and smearing the landscape with glitter of atoms chasing the magnet of reckless appearances. She also spreads the thick moisture of her light, with teeth extended. And petals ripped... Sometimes the moon is brighter than the sun, sometimes there is fire in the stone, but always the ocean is the sister of your shadow. There is blood in your eyes when you sleep, glowing... Your mask is wind, a knife sharpened, a wound in cinema, hazardous blue, "the moon" she said, "is a pagan breathing ritual... A sentence lost... a stringless marionette." A visible desire stalking the sleepers. Poised above “smearing the landscape” is annihilation and pleasure, and to the margins of what was erased, near the “sister of your shadow” there is the desert with its terrors. The stairway with its corsets, its vagaries. The last evidence of an enigma wrapped in glass. There is the woman, the wolf through the man, brightness of the fuse, a choice of weapons. Between chaise and demise, perverse and demanding, death imitates life. And that moment is uncanny.

LXVIII The images are scavenging for what glows with body and consciousness, what pieces the puzzle and reflects, denounces what interferes, what spaces intersect. Dusk of the body, serpent heist... You remember that first invasion, and yearn again for it endlessly. Original slaughter. Precious animal, that triangle of blood pleasure. Always the first loss of indigenous harvest, pregnant hive. The light is hidden and secret from the eyes of curious strangers, those who mingle with the unveilers. Nothing is known but the scent of pine and seductive oranges... “Write that,” she whispers. “Covering the word pleasure.” Defiance is the act of rubbing a mirror into sparks. The shadow hidden in the mirror rips off her dress. The universe intrudes. Obsidian warms the hand, when she emits the green deer of conceptual power. Ceremonial rubbing. A criminal offense, a fear that lasts until dawn turns it into magic. Light forced into thirsty mouths. Spirits of time and space foraging at the gate in the body’s reach, falling asleep, desperate solutions on the tip of the tongue, disparate schemes.

LXIX The illusion of movement is a furious battle for presence on more than one level of evening, alone, wrestling with a comical dance at the end of time, concise inventions, skilled knife-throwers offering inevitability... Striations across the vision of a solar eclipse approaching a reindeer with immaculate intentions, raising a shipwreck out of the sea, for a wedding night, a diamond formation growing unforgettable mazes. Consider the adolescent frenzy of a maiden voyage lost in the 12th Century, like a distant cousin with eyes inciting incest and a name without letters. Splendid moves stalking every angle. But, only one of the absolute gears of love... Consider that there is nothing deciphered in the presence of an object that is often at a loss to be, where it is, even, where who it is or was, is only a rumor. A conjecture dissected, remaining a closely guarded secret. A feminine landscape on the verge of parting the ramps. Offering horseshoes for a threat of working fire into a distraught mare of night, a caress blowing fuses into a flood. Stealth is the manticore of a self-pleasuring reveille, the fever of waking up alive and a twin. The undisguised gift without a reason. A fortunate embrace.

LXX Sibylline. Astute, regal and hidden among facets. She would play the knight until his membrane belonged to her. “Never follow me...” “My eyes are the uncertainty of sirens...” The breath of insects altering the shape of the landscape when it sleeps in haunting. Optics in the depth of presence triggering storms outside of words spoken, whispered, scratched at the depth of original urge, stillness cooling into immense weight. The word secret slaughters the enemy, initiates a kiss, challenges a woman, or a spectre. Where the word dies... Where is world? Your face, those eyes colliding, occult nearness of black and blue, polished interpretation of murderous contentment, always interrupted, unfinished by words. An unmistakable clarity. A graceful savaging, soft and quiet, a humming sensation spread over an astounding sense of a ruthless arming. Your hunger is the key to unfathom the emerging hour. The lock is endless ocean. She mazes night into fire, that bright silence stuttering and whining, when no one is there but her own haggard brilliance mything in between damage and echo, and “entering in your risk...” Her presence is a knife-fight for a marvelous leverage known only to anonymous shadows. She fires the maze into night. There is the missing inclination. The psychology of antagonism, loving other darknesses worthy of piercing.

LXXI

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