LUMINOUS WEAPONS
(Works in progress)
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 candle-making 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 amorous 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. But 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 shudder, 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 virgin-colored 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... 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.
*
Stature to stature, and shadow upon shadow, propitious arcs and traumatic entrances, pure-bred 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 lays darker beneath the dream, much deeper than an ordinary conversation between lovers and arch enemies. 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 heavy-lidded 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 sirens in the lighted areas of the desert at night, where the natural elements of hunger and insomnia were all gathered for the coronation of The Grande Glazier, who’s 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 hour-glass 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 like 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, 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 ill-timed landing. The pilot in the mirror of the owl unlocks the caress of an previous reflection, tearing up the fields of equilibrium, planting nights in delirium.
*
When the fire of your self image precedes you, by many years, 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 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 two-faced palace reclining in all her nakedness. Her shoes are spinning. The witches are hunting. The lace-maker dreams 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 mare 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. A maiden voyage...
*
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 oneiric 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. 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 wolf, 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 leopards in the garden shivering like mist.
*
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 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 jasmine 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 entreaties. 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, and does the memory of your ground-breaking 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 shape of time, 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 slowing 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 gem-cutting delights of her plumed body when it shares the river with wolves and other like-minded 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 humming sensories 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 intercept 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 slender threads, pale limbs bright as trees and forest fires in fine lace releasing the splendid cat’s cradle of the sexes, the luminous 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, watermarks reveal peregrinations of enchantment. Her 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 nobility, 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 growing 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 by the order of appearance.
*
“Let us prey...” and “Do they bleed for us, or vanish?” are attracted to each other in the way they come closest to masterminding the ambivalence of the palace in the library, and the crime that follows you with its quiet memory. 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 stroll... The amorous key takes you by surprise, thrown in for good measure.
*
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 sub rosa 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 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 entering 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, nor 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 rapture. 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 lunar Solanace and the womanly owl-covered 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 makes sunflowers 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 golden 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 candle wick.
*
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.
Continuing....