“Once I had this beautiful book in my possession, I did nothing but study it night and day, learning very well all the operations it described, but not knowing with what material it should be started. This caused me great sorrow, kept me in solitude, and made me sigh incessantly. My wife Perenelle, whom I loved like myself was greatly astonished at this, so I showed her this beautiful book, with which, the moment she saw it, she fell as much in love as I, taking extreme pleasure in contemplating the beautiful covers, engravings, images, and portraits, of which figures she understood as little as I did. Nevertheless, it was for me a great consolation to talk about it with her, and to consider what could be done in order to find out their meaning.”
- Nicolas Flamel (supposedly 14th century) Book of the Hieroglyphic Figures, 1612.

“With a very fine pincer I grasp the posterior part of the abdomen of an insect, and while it is struggling to fly away I bring the tip of one of its wings into contact with the surface of a smoke-blackened cylinder turning at constant speed. Each time it moves, the wing removes a small amount of the soot which covers the cylinder and leaves a trace of its passage ... By using a chronographic marker one may determine with precision the number of revolutions of the wing which take place in one second.”
- Étienne-Jules Marey  The double-ellipse motion of the insect (1869).

“But now the sudden change of fortune and expectations seemed to me so distant––and memory itself so buried in ashes––all that still matters to me is this window thumping like a useless heart.”
- Jacques Lacomblez (1967) L’Orfevre puni (The Punished Goldsmith)

 

"How does light travel through transparent bodies? Light travels through transparent bodies in straight lines only. ... We have explained this exhaustively in our Book of Optics. But let us now mention something to prove this convincingly: the fact that light travels in straight lines is clearly observed in the lights which enter into dark rooms through holes. ... the entering light will be clearly observable in the dust which fills the air.”
- Ibn Al-Haitham (1023)

 

 

 

 

 

THE WOLF HOUSE

 

 

   To see is to mesmerize the membrane of sense into believing that there is more to be torn than meets the shape of it, more to the nearness that touches what isn’t apparent, more to taste and devour that slips pagan with light through your evidence. Rumors of unavoidable feasting make your mouth bleed, showing signs of a feverish pollination.

*

   A tree of sight with seeing leaves, as luminous as the body relieved of its memory, unraveled by its tedious ancestors, or without sleep, its eggs spinning in the doorway. The bright air is bleeding slowly, like burning film when the dream interrupts a backward glance.

*

   In phantom dimensions there are no rules less forbidding than the revenge of presence, and no lingering doubts analogous to the most sinister of solutions, sister-bathing, and the owl-table following you...

*

   The brightness of her fabric glows in the dark, and re-enters the gravity of earth; her eyelashes exceed the boundaries of silence, and the plumes deface your chemicals. Her eyes move with soft threads, and her footprints summon you with embers. There is the deafening sound of an entrance slowly rising...

*

   There are centuries old measures implanted in the fluctuating carbon of a grappling and furious perception. It is the right of being to foresee the limits and zones of one’s own royal ignition: an aristocracy of quartz, disturbing the night. The claws of language and the blind man's bluff, scratching out the names that make your nerves glow and spread out over the somnambulant landscape––it is not the sacred flesh without the pollen that sparkles for the shade of your fierce and indignant humming.

*

   The spectral bodies in the twining smoke become your profile. You breathe in spirals through obscure notations for a gothic romance blurred with forbidden cravings; the cave of fireflies is your dwelling place, and your weapons of life are forced upon you by desire.

*

  The lunar solution mixed, conjured and aroused in its unreasonable coupling with the solar complex, under the raven's dark fire, and over the bright salamander's sinister reflection, is more real than thought poured over stark white ashes. The ablutions mirror the nuptials, and the water of desire opens the lock, flows down between the cornices and sets fire to its own veil...

*

   In her eyes, mirror of the phoenix, mirror of the art that is not without peril, the double night and the secret doors of the planets, and the central perceptive system of the orchid grower's trembling fingers around your neck through the softness of the fur, to enchant the world around you. What had never spoken, nor made sounds, now sings... bewitching the elements in her image.

*

   The hourglass is filled with the slender and delicious water of night. The shadows of hunger are shimmering. You are pursued by a dream that touches the source of your whispering, and when you stop for a moment to breathe, cast a reflection and disrobe, the landscape offers you a message of precocious selenium and distillation, and fills in the empty spaces with its analogies of vitreous powder and aroused whispering. The friction of light...

 

 

 

   Deep in the mines where the magical art of a single, irrevocable and ghostly caress establishes the earth in the wind's bright and poetic force like teeth against bone... a swift and swirling chemistry mirrored by the body's other, the body of ether that passes through you with little more than a breath, to stain the sumptuous wall of your absence.

*

   The containers for the daughters of the assassins filled with starlight and murmurs, have lead you to the ever-widening spirit of transparency, where the leopard's breath and the flower of light are dripping in architectural intersections, and resemble each other... They spill the same fluids and pebbles of an eagerly disruptive anarchy. Time dispatches paradoxical inklings that blacken your fingernails, and decode your predecessors into the harmonious dust of a life that is breathed in and ignited by the wind powered with emeralds.

*

   In the passageway between light and dark, where you align yourself in molecular fashion against her linen seductively smoldering in the grass, where the dew-igniting armatures, with their Quetzal tails, dazzle the voyeurs in their dream kingdoms, fermenting beneath the shimmering tables of feral potions and elixirs... where knives are kissing. Only her shadow remains in the wetness of noon, strung between the magnetic poles of disorientation and sheer bliss... It is all dressed in one fell swoop. Spectacles are discarded. The owl's coat covers your escape.

*

   A fire in the city diverts the passage of stars. Bathing is the only solution to increasing the sense of light. Reality is the faded area of reconnaissance, in that moment where the silk merchants offer their bodies out of darkness, out of the lost incantations and alchemical symbols, when fire was shaped by internal obsessions, and two-headed eggs that chase the two-headed King through the labyrinth of complicity.

*

   You release your name from the sound of it. You pass unnoticed between the ordinary schemes, and dance in the silence of faded photographs, becoming a blur of decisive and imperative maneuvers... having passed through, while still arriving, unnoticed––a wizard of magnificent intimation, and a forger of hallucinations, brilliant thefts and jutting planes of razor-sharp innocence...

*

  There is, in the instinct of your enigmatic gaze, a rapid conjuring of terrestrial sparks and aroused whispering that threatens to enrapture the various objects of escape. Nothing is ever a moment too soon. There is the milk of spiders, like night-lights in season, elevating the more obscure theories of transmutation to the higher levels of organic joy.

*

   In the center of this conflagration, this transparent, scent-driven shadow of a city like a sudden squall making candles, that perpetuates the luminosity of her presence––where you unfold like a serpentine compass, on an obscure street, in the otherness of twilight––is a back draft of bees dripping honey in her excitement when it colonizes the darkening dawn, and breathes in the spores and the burning fluorite of widows, followed by the prisms and the blood-like mirrors of uncanny movement. The breath of light is indecent... Simple, squalid and radiant.

*

  The Druidic windows are chasing the impending hour, and their inclinations are towards golden outlines, stealthy as curses and just as graceful...

*

   The oxide of herons chasing the lithium of a body leaning against its vision, sacrificed for the beautiful glow-worm rituals, and formed by the fusion of the two clavicles that guide the fire and water of your fundamental forces. Without her the analogon is useless. The paragon is unspoken... No one moves this way through this light, or vanishes without the serum of infinite speculation...

*

   She who moves against the anesthetic entrances, violating their currents, their vital arteries and hanging gardens, she who is the rain of sudden recognition, and fugitive revelations, she who is not the one to mislead you, except by dreaming of your twilight and your hummingbird violence.

 

  The animal kingdom is in her eyes, and the hidden geometry of desire traversed by lightning, in fibers of primordial survival, your waves and particles in the grooming of a starry night. Shadows kissing her sex... Shadows are fading with exuberance in every language under the sun.

*

   It is the center of identity, where the chemist and his shadow exchange reflections in the espionage of invented mythologies, where love and delirium hurl their fatal stones, and spin their long-haired cylinders in the dark gowns of an avalanche––where you, when you are close, when you are slender as a thought and more than a shade, are animated by the griffon of erratic aerials long since outlawed in the provinces, and in the warehouses of hysteria––where there is nowhere to go except where the Royal Solution sets up its outrageous barricades and its reckless scaffolding according to the smoke and water that is the blood of your face. Your face, betrayed by scorpions...

*

   All is filled to overflowing with soluble movements in the theatre of bright conjunctions... the sun-tree pours only the edible aspects of consciousness that inflames the central calyx of the looming alphabet sputtering to a moment of utter silence... where heraldic salamanders conspire with the moon for the thrones of lava.

*

  The diviners in black coats, with their feet of river and hermeneutic rib cages, are dabbling in the opium of miraculous poses... You lean this way against the light, and glowing with dark sensations, like optical roots changing places with both presence and absence in the esplanade of a thousand orphic disguises. What venom is in the beauty of the magic of what is not real, but against all that is, wherever it can be seen... The hissing of light, you see it as base metal rusting with kisses.

 

 

 

 

  The heaviness of your scent, the ephemeral gull-wing of your rituals and the soluble claws of evasive maneuvers, in the mannequin storehouse of darkness, when the circular fumes turn in upon themselves, building blocks of a ghostly psychology... slipping forward to whisper, a touch that burns the seascape, melting sepia for the daggers that haunt your change of direction towards a marauding radiance...

*

   Your visage in the sorrow of fountains like a hunting falcon was the key to the grace of menace that changed with the windless hounds, and the starless hounds foraging into dark ravishing deceptions and forgeries of immense and searing delight. It was your sleep that followed you, placed your totems and timepieces just moments beneath the surface...

*

   A simian gyroscope set the standards for excellence, and the last guardians were the ones who followed you with the burning fruit of inspired debacles.

*

   The mating of beasts with the shimmering of early morning wind, when it rattles the delicate anatomy of mystery, carving out its trajectory with gargoyles of projected pathos, on the intricate metalwork that clarifies your magnetic inclination beneath the horizon, on the disappearing shadows, and even in the water that ravishes your unknown possibilities.

*

   The moon in its unorthodox position, when it ignites the channels of her vast undertaking with dragonroot and heretic alignments, she would not release you from your peregrinations––and the lunar aspect would collide with the lethargy of the sea captain whose great wheel knew more than the planetary void that guided his thoughts of reality and its overloading circuits.

*

   Your presence that is inviolate, and invisible at last, your presence and your other presence, flown into another presence, and you are the opposite of yourself, the one more than double the twin in the history of irrevocable attractions, in the illuminated prowling of sentinels and rotating entrances... You bring yourself back to life again, through her rapid grooming, and by the liquids of her breath... She is your loom, and your threads that engender the clothing of a solemn witchcraft. She is your scalpel...

*

   In her resurrection there are birds of fire and poisonous flowers that spray the first diaphanous blocks of your edifice, and darken the doorways. The clay jars still contain your secrets: the resonance of wolves that light your passage with the shiver of bathing shadows. The bearings strike counter to the aurora boring into the still disrobing psychotropism of your molecular entrance. In this equation, you are always a tenuous object of fascinating disruption...

*

  She would spend long hours with her branches and her streams, polishing the bones of the dispossessed, and speak lovingly of conquered Mayans, still glowing from the horns of their visible sensations, circled by the feasts of both darkness and light, both lost and found. She would name them, and raise them out of context, unloading their language from their visions.

*

   She was the purity of strange messages delivered by couriers in the dead of night and, in a manner of speaking, you would invade her mist with all the revelry of a forest fire when it invades the wedding night with its subliminal kindling, its Milky Way and its dust. It is her presence that prefigures the gestures of the magician, and her bones that raise visions out of the fire...

*

   Now, it could be you, when she opens the creatures of her eyes, and fires up the spindles of separation that dissolve in the pharmaceuticals of the rain burning in her face, or it could be another, more wiser and encircled in the sorcery of her presence for you, while seeing his mirror through you, when she is not lunar or pristine, for his bathing and her dreaming in the nighttime oils––I wonder, she thought, when he came so close to the vessels of our light, would they recognize us in your reflection? “Would they kill us? Would the lip-readers unmask us? Would the garden raise its marksmen for us?”

*

   In the language of bees, there are new visions in the hive, new frictions in the bright water of alignment and new triangles that warm the night... when the second sight of an intimidating angle comes to lie inside the crux of a phantom angle seen only once, without the illusion of sudden recognitions. The draftsman forms the orientation of each caress, each erotic and obscure perambulation divided into quadrants and arched points of enchantment, animating the invisible entrances with thorns of light, and dark stirring sensations.

*

  She moves without shadows around her, leaning heavily against the horseshoe of sudden recognitions, and seducing an animal gesture from around the corner with all the ease of a smile and a knife thrown into the glimmering targets of the field, and her destiny is the least opaque of stones that tune the pianos of thirst only when the moon is full of murmuring.

*

   You exist in the penumbra at the edges of the mirror’s shadow, where the water rises upwards along the explicit refractions of those who sleep beyond the moment of waking, and those whose expressions of desire intimidate the freshly oiled bodice of an evening’s rotating precipice. The antlers of reality are clashing in the roses of a Minoan spyglass, revealing the strange and twittering words of an insoluble romance. Sleeping with the animals...

*

   The liquids that stream from her mouth at the beginning of a dream follow almost exclusively the high-pitched winnowing of the puppets and the insolent chimera looming in the woods from various distant countries, along fire-lanes of perception that lead you with panting and triangular flares, through the rustling of the leaves when they glow in the hallways and crystallize across the windows, are held together by the breath of lovers.

*

   There is both night and day in the immense storms, hunted by the aroused chateau and it’s long-lost elder siblings, the magnetic fields, combing out the sleeplessness of dark and the dreaming of light when no one comes to call. The secret writing always kept one step ahead, and your daughter the raven, in her most soluble state of being, almost always kept up the most natural of appearances. She fed the phoenix its very first prey. She speaks Arabic and circles the rain. She sings to the vessels infused with light. Her molecules are a great source of weeping and her sparks incite tender scandals...

*

   The owl-man’s flying wolf eating its wings in the great hall of whispering, in the moonlit caverns, in the cabinet of amazing lures, in that instance when the lightning is born from spores and the spirit unleashes it’s red ink in every direction, deep in the fibers of a graceful and sublime mimicry... The engravers never sleep past the hour of their disguises. Their notebooks are outlined with green suns and darknesses that never reach the page. Nights of gold...

*

  Your return to innocence in the ambivalent territories near the city of a last resort, your emergence in the unreasonable zones and forbidden places where desire grooms and replicates, your fires, your barely remembered signals and signs, your fading in and out, your chemicals, your flowering cells, bursting origins, glistening pods and dripping seeds. You are the reflection of senses unlike your own, emitting magical substances––she is never at the point of divulging her secrets, and she hoards them like serpents or benevolent weapons shaped by discoveries in abandoned observatories.

 

 

 

 

 

   It is camouflage in nature, and delirious invention in the mind that keeps the field of stars and the raging fires intermingling in the fabric of your own glimpse and your own shipwreck, and makes everything brighter, more lucid and more unique, and finally, at the end of an image in time, makes your hunger darker and more real––It is that illusion that matters most...

*

   You never leave your fingerprints in the uncanny thoughts that shape your iridescent strategies, or on the dangerous implements that light up your environs. Your photographs are always too dark and disheveled, and whatever poses can be discerned are always too ambiguous for regrets. You were often the most reticent, and the last to leave; yet you were never without a trace, however unattainable or encoded. Always winding up in smoke...

*

   The watchman is always present in the form of the vague ringing of a bell that signals the advent and annunciation of movement shedding its skin, both spectacular and covert––a dismantling of whatever tenderness and seductions that drape themselves vast and shocking over the landscape forever receding... The shore is a trance, and a trace of light, a word whispered into the arc of a wing... Your eyes, the heat of a vigilant animal...

*

   There is the spirit of things merging from every direction, like a plague disguised as a sense of serene restlessness beautiful beyond belief; the spirit of a paradoxical approach, the buzzing of thoughts that ignite what remains to be embraced, in a space of ghost towns and ghostly particles, where the Royal Coupling facilitates the splicing of suns onto wordless passages, threading rivers through further inexplicable conspiracies––the vessel-makers daughter is always your darkly stained nucleus, the key that becomes the lock. She is not the moral of the story other than her face of burning poppies...

*

   The reality of it, for you, is prehensile and volatile. You have not yet arrived in the form of your dreams. You are somewhere else, pretending...

*

   The powdered antimony of a starless evening, where the wolves summon their children for the fluid of witches ceaselessly spinning the doorways of the words that see you and understand your heresy, your cries and the blueprints of your eclipse.

*

   No longer among the shadows that release their flares...

*

   Your reflection is the imposter that lives your life elsewhere, in splendor. The vagueness of your shape precedes you. Only your eyes are real.

*

   Tiny fires in a tiny kingdom that looms in the dust of enfilading mammals joyously prosperous in the shattered violin of the Milky Way, you come to life in the center of your body, centuries away from the light that precedes you. You are a glow among stones.

*

  There is no darkness and no return, no consolation and no rest, no glistening balm in the disease that heals you, no owl that breaks your rib cage, nor weapons that power your treasure, and no atoms to define your grace or your disappearance, there is no final glance that shapes your womb or sharpens the brightness of your blade, but all these together attract your breath and illuminate your presence. Neither here nor there, but from where you are...

*

   Your scent defiles the anvil, the way words defy fear... without anger.

*

   In the hours between waking and sleeping the scorpion dances for you when you resemble the distance between the sun and the moon, when the 15th century could be heard in the 23rd hour like a distant clicking sound surrounded by trees, when the symbols of your secret observations and transactions follow the footprints of those who wander in the night, leading them astray, and when the precise meanings hold only enough water to dismantle the jetty and the beautiful whores into the clairvoyant debris of the first morning of Spring and the whispering bones.

*

   "I come to you often in the night, when you sleep, and wander around in your dreams rearranging the places you visit, and pull the thread of your presence as if it were my own, newly susceptible to what is unique in your direction, to what suffers from my absence when you wake––but then, just moments before light comes in through whatever door confounds your sense of reason, I manage to slip out of the landscape like the sound of smooth branches rubbing together and rustling, burning beneath the sheets like twin streams awaiting the sun... and I am gone, a vague sense of something forgotten, not even a barely audible sigh..."

*

   Your voice in mine is no longer a threat to the singular raven of your throat when it undermines the mercury of my transference into your absence, and your displacement of poisonous tongues among the lilacs of an aimless rendezvous, when there are no truths at any hour more worthy than the swarm of jellyfish that mime your mirror and your double reflection scattered in the forest like wings of salt.

*

   The soluble spider’s web of the nebula that is your body when it sees itself in the facets of a single, irrevocable gesture that shapes the darkness around it, and reflects the light in pools between it––your light that is threaded in the diagrams of a charmed and desolate joy ever so slowly spinning. When you left by the sign of the moth heavy with triangles of barbaric lineage, the milk of the knife made its presence brighter by severing you from the moon...

*

   In the courtyards of a desirable clashing, where no survivors resemble the healing substances of those painful flowers that betray the stars and the streams of light, the séance of wolves tackle the language and the consciousness of another glow in the world around you, softened by the chisels of the sea and its limping daughters. Flight is the color of coal when it releases the sea for the widow’s walk. You find yourself, glowing...

*

   Just beneath the center, and to the east no more than a few steps, where the heaviness of your shoulders leaves an imprint in the air, like a soft moan disturbing the light that clings to you like a ghost resplendent with its 16 cardinal points––the nautical charts confound the Allocator of Tricks, the enchanter who vanishes like lightning when it enters the tree, or the last figure in the illuminated manuscript, with those winged gears, that ambidextrous smile and the strange foreboding hat.

*

  The weather announces the grace of a marvelous cunning, sparkling on the surface which might not even be found in the darkness of the well, or on the roulette table where the candelabra (a lost memory) conspires with the dragonfly (a symbol of unrest) as elegant and lovely as a crossbow filled with early morning mayhem. “I adore you” she whispered, and died in your arms, a small planet, a diamond cutter’s blade, a single kiss, a drop of venom...

*

   In the wolf house the witch’s sun is black and forbidding, and the statues would not relinquish the strange vessels of their thought, nor defy the privileges of wonder and deception, and for each shadow casting that crosses your path, they dissolve in the light that takes its body from the water at midnight, and wanders aimlessly through the stages of changing, when firing the invention, or hunting the gatherers... In your efforts to remain indifferent, and highly amused, there is a sealing of the hermetic, and a stoning of the philosophers; there is the crafting of witches and the surmounting of the real...

*

   She is always beautifully captured and obscurely fixed in the center of the room, in the mirror, in the appearance that recedes, in the locomotive drawn by the loons of time like one without regrets, yet in the full bloom of ravenous contortions and untimely evictions that never fail to unravel the submissive spinning-wheel from its bestial moorings. When she hunts she is radiant, and when she sleeps, with her prey, she is a coal-fired vanishing act.

*

   The perception of your own identity loses its value when the streetlights commemorate the antipodes of a sudden embrace, and the backdrop is haunting those who manipulate the splendid mechanism of unavoidable chance encounters in the pentagram of invasive storms, and set up––the power of certain words, or sounds that ignite––to shower the last known, least recognizable landscape of marvelous aberrations.

*

   You met her when the rain was like thread and bright as ether. You pierced her through the mirage of forthcoming nights, brandishing trowels and amazing resins, volatile as sleep and twice as dangerous. You found her with the light years of desire, in the 13th month of the last quarter of the gambler prepared to lose everything, and you drew honey from her breath with a careless slip of the tongue... She was as brilliant as fangs in the moonlight and would never settle for anything less. She was, for you, a dark and eerie insemination of transparency.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   There is the movement of stone like clockwork, precise and hypnotic, like the slowly unfolding, nocturnally blooming flowers of capture and conquest, captive and ravisher, vessel and salamander... like the scent of milk when it flows from the furnace in your skeletal courtyard... like that coven of witches caressed by farewells, and luminous with protective measures that shame even the senseless codes of mystery, while the music of the spheres animates each movement, each gesture and each singular drop of moisture in every glance... Pure carbon! A barely audible sigh, like a precious body of water kept alive and aroused for centuries.

*

   “I love you, and I am your intonation, your vessel, and your central vanishing point. I am your conspiracy. My branches are filled with the blackest blood that glistens on your teeth when you breathe the earth through my roots and place your sucking lips over the purring of my memory... I fill your hunger with my exploits and my lack of fear, and when resurrection is swift we dive with the gargoyles in an endless arc between the reflection and the shadow, the autistic wind of stars in the unwinding bell-tower of the landscape without any visible meaning, or the stairway varnished with anatomical particles that resuscitate the glow of your bones... the dust your breath escapes.”

*

   You are a glowing margin from her haunting, and the rapidity of quartz that flows from the gallows of her marrow to the sinew of last evening’s storm, within you, peripheral, awkward and acute, lighting up your feverish landscape with the passage of pale eyelids, and she is the furthest from you when you hesitate, yet she continually beckons to you, and lures you with her flesh of fireflies... unnatural being of the air, speaking the leaves, whispering the roots and stems, fading in light, in the buzzing of wind, invisible burning in the circle of sleepwalkers spinning contrary to the blood released from it’s hive, one drop at a time...

*

   There is no mirror that cleaves through your being, but the molecules that surrender their utmost clarity when they include the distance from you, smearing the edges with your fingers, connecting the sparks through fur and hair as luxurious as death and its diaphanous presence, mingling black with the precious glimmer of atoms when they move your body through light, and language shaping a river of diminutive cocoons no bigger than pores watching you, tasting your mouth and your eyes, inventing new streams...

*

   A kiss in blood exposes the ermine of everyday attachment, and you often leave the apparitions of beguiling detours for more evasive measures leading to the bed of moths bursting with the powder of unrest... Awakened by a dream, your name called out through the window, the anonymous arrival of the caretaker’s bride and her many servants all dressed in the blackness of dusk––when the moon multiplied by three. You fill the air with the sense of longing and desirable appearances, unavoidable trinkets, a serpent’s poison, a splendid leap into the air, a sidereal glance, an unquestioned act of sabotage... She touches the squared circle of your thirst.

*

   The morning plays like twins under the table, exchanging desires that follow the constellations in the garden of reflections, living tattoos, squalls of perception. A golden wheel-barrel giving birth between the landing lights, where the conflict of charms and symmetries reaches a crescent of pawns and lethal movements. You reply with incantations, indices of melted wax and the scent of consciousness––in the Book of Chameleons the answers are endless and ruthlessly whimsical.

*

   I cannot see you, there are no rules, it is not the same, the imposter navigates, the bell is loaded, the antlers light you up, no one leaves a shroud, the portrait of a siren, cast no messengers, the apprentice is baffling, it is a woman fading, the tree touches you, blood is like iron, tiny earthquakes in rose, it is no longer the same, all is eloquently placed... The tincture of your thoughts moving over long distances...

*

   When your eyes are at last in the center of the fields crossing the keys with the ornate power of the keyhole, and the insects gather for the allure and the trembling of the spirit, and the tiger’s grace for the perfect crime, you leave without tossing a feather for the ibis of a spring-loaded cabal.

*

   Your language of silver-white crystals, anomalous pigments, the flash of knives under the arcades, the tripod of swinging jackals, that woman dressed in colonies of bees, in the madness of daring angles and close calls, of falling and flying, and long, endless corridors that open in the coliseum of unnatural revelations that change your disguise in the blink of an eye, from one conjuration to another. The danger of liaisons in the chamber of the bride with her tuning fork and her fissures of enchanted disproportion...

*

   The tendency to violate the order of visual transition between the ruby’s fluorite of the background and the pale luminous quality of the emerald’s mysterious shawl (the long dark hair, and how it extinguishes in the shoulders; the delicate trace of a cheekbone meeting the organic gold of the air––always a figure of increasing speculation. The lassitude of a lit fuse. She remains nameless and potion-like, her insolence the glow in the eyes of wolves. The river knows her breath, as the wind makes her scent an eclipse.

.

 

 

 

   Her animal patterns of deployment are panting, striking up the movement to paralyze and lay eggs in every thought... and out of every pleasure, every quirk and form from one end of time to the other, to spread the amazing fluid of the insects and the rapidly glowing petals that prepare you for the antiquated feast and its environs of time-lapsed dishevelment, and therefore follows the sequence of events that lead to the immoral landing site and the monoliths of wind...

*

   The Royal Chemicals are mixed in an arcane spectrum of near and far, where the distance arouses your face, caresses it and flees from your dismay, while the four senses of clarity (the Enchanted Angles) gather for the wedding night, making their moves without being seen, and begin the seduction that levels the illusion of what another sense is radiating, casting what glimmers, which waves of velocity, or touching whose eyes... What is it that entices you? Through what substance are you driven? By what inclination does the haunting of your perception follow the geometry of a kiss that reaches beyond your combined shadows?

*

   You never leave by the obvious door, nor are you always certain of your whereabouts, but you are beside yourself with the usual nonchalance. You never pose without a weapon, and you dazzle out in the yard at night with your subliminal merging, when the sparks of your breath collide with the sparks of the air, when your sublime gestures rescue the endless immoral possibilities in a cluster that shapes your gaze––from the alchemical disparity of a thousand and one chance encounters, there is only a spectral haze where the camera obscura bursts into flames, with your image inside...

*

   In the salamander there is a window that looks out over the drama of your distractions, and from the eyes projecting the radiant dust through which can be seen the foundations of a city in Braille, where the opposite of fire joins the fire itself in the reflection of your thoughtless water... There is earth in this immaculate water of shadows.

*

   There are still gatherings where the assassins live and die among the lilies, and the glass boats that, even to this day, can be seen chasing the whispering pawnbrokers through the early morning hours––and you, with your molecules of desire, your sweet breads and evening primrose breath, scavenging in the background for the bioluminescent receptors of some secret and very beautiful hybrid of lustful revenge... begin to glow and melt.

*

   The rules of the game are not to be taken seriously, and even that irresistible bodice of eels that summons you with its erotic diving gear has no meaning or lucidity without the most intoxicating paradox of suggestion. You abandon yourself to anathema with its charming objects and missing links. You release the captives and gamble on the elegance of a single, and most profound change of space––where your eyes are twittering beneath their opium-distilled lids of passing galaxies brush up against a moment of serene lunacy. You awaken in the rebis of the city. Your joy is iron.

*

   When she dreams the black moths come to sip from her aura, and the largest of all Lepidoptera comes to land on her, the length of its body the length of hers, fluttering its wings with her, and when you notice her trembling with sudden and ceaseless abandon, it will be the moment when she assaults the heretic fountain of your sublime compost, where fragments of the Milky Way take up residence, shattering the windows and spreading like poison oak, or your chimerous presence among the birds...

*

   There will always be the great treasure aching beneath the X, always the impossible seduction, always the unforeseen cosmology of delight, and always the sumptuous sundial of finely-tuned volcanos, and fabled cross-hairs, and further, by comparison to the purely accidental fortune of the witching hour, there will always be the imaginary revolutions spinning ever faster out of the embryos and larvae of the landscape, the deluge of fire-washed bones in the anesthetic forge of unreason, and always for you, in spite of yourself. Time to destroy the season of light, time to vanish...

*

   Regarding the tungsten shape of the laws of nature, what gives impetus to the unwinding of the thread is the howling of the door which in turn engenders the magical dimensions of your phantom limbs, your phantom body and the mirror of the art that eats you, bathes your crystals with the fever of a lover, and breathes the phoenix into your rain-colored skin when it opens for the exploration of kindling with unpainted lips of flint.

*

   She was the one whose filaments contaminated the most beautiful eggs with those eager prisms in love with equine admonishments and cries of eros in the vestments of the lamplighter, when he extinguishes the street of chemicals of attraction and repulsion, and follows the cobblestones of an immense and idolatrous sigh... She spreads her lapidarian pheromones across your path, precious stones and irregular bewitchments, crossed eyes, a warm hand to kiss, a slippery flower to pierce your tongue and a handful of quicksilver. Your fervent messages were ghostly ships, starless nights.

*

   The sexualities of plants and omens, the physical demeanor of the hummingbird with its feminine bottles of amaranthine fastened to trees of prophetic incest by the tripod of your voice and your perfume still coming from the Middle Ages, festooned to the moon in the water that often resembles your wishbone face... This was your language against language, your love against love and the motors of resolution. Your axe grinding of light... Your seed...

*

   The plague of your desires more truthful than any direction finder, or compass of shadowy places, and what matters most is that vessel of the traveler’s bright plasma or the black moon of the flame in the eyes of the bride, hermetically sealed in the caress, while the bride is dreaming, the tiger dreams and Bird of Paradise dreams, and the water rises up into its own dreaming position, and they are not dreaming, they are touching you, exciting the sinew of your shadow that runs ahead solving riddles and lighting candles.

*

   No one could ever be certain of when your image aligns itself perfectly with your mirror, while the one behind you weaves the spell of recognition, and the one in front is never present, you are never alone, even in your discomfort, fluently dressed to the nines in the 11th hour, a sense of wonder in the bath of fireflies, a final resting place, cremation of life, a spark...

*

   A brilliant fountain in the center of the city, like the rapture of a criminal style that exceeds itself in the accidental flamboyance of a subtle gesture designed to haunt that moment between waking and sleep, when you carry your stilts with amazing dexterity, gliding in-between obstacles with abandon and resistance, a dweller in the wind, excavating crystal.

 

 

 

 

 

   The phosphorescent water of dreams poured over the rocks of each being, plant, animal and mineral, twice for good measure, in a double sense multiplied by its arcs and auras under numerous and impossible layers, rendering each assault of improbability as separate and fresh as a springtime of weapons, bringing the depth of night into the foam of your body, your aspect and its emblazoned cello of joy and ashes. A savage glow in a gaze that scatters its replication, casting shadows in every direction...

*

   Only your footprints are left behind, effortless javelins of disregard and dismay, directed by the arcane rubies of a ruthless tenderness, where you stand many years from now by the edge of recognition, holding the sign of the word: EXIT, without the adornment of antlers or the miasma of a starry inquisition, equidistant to the long, auburn locks brushed out against the horizon, with trembling fingers... This enormous and sinister sextant under wraps, guided by seductive gloves, is shining on the throne of vertigo: the key to your mystery.

*

   In the Book of Optics the importance of cruelty to light as a prerequisite to the official placement of the tripod of celestial navigation, where you arrange according to pleasure your scintillating objects of sleep and sabotage, and the mingling apertures that open to raise the living into view by the force of basalt and solarization––and purified even by the echoes of fire––is finally tantamount to the photograph of the seer in a reluctant pose, gazing into what can only be seen by the Angelica of copious entrances.

*

   The portrait of the bloodied veil that is the lighthouse of the woman that sees you and floods your source with mirrors––the analogous body, voluminous as the open mouth against your face, the animal teeth and breath of touching, almost fading, beyond recognition, having passed behind the moon and then released. There is the scaffolding of charmed interference (your illusive image), the irresistible and luscious fruit of the bee swarm (the aura of your memory, breeding...) that makes the curve of your endless arrivals and departures as eminent as the Northern Lights in the geology of desire.

*

   Slipping a candle between her lips, she lights up the magician’s more esoteric exploits, when fear is involved, when the knife is more adept at last minute decisions and subtle, but fatal maneuvers, when the difference between the movement and the space around it offers the least amount of resistance, the quiver of her lips, the precious scent of burning wax, the tiny flame, like a kiss or a rare flower on the verge of extinction, and the space inside the movement that breaks the spell of lingering doubts forever. An eager outbreak of hallucination. An imposter, in love and in death, with sorcery, for the revolt of a brutal and precise innocence...

*

   Random acts of concealment and moon-seeds scattered by the magnifying-glass of the perpetually revealing Goddess machine, with its multiplying pentacles configured according to the self-aligning molasses of each radial and axial séance that meets you half way between here and there, rigged up to the furthest star in the nebula of Orion with the words beautiful and useless––when they meet in the corridor of a moments notice, there are irreverent sparks. This is where your signature is needed, and your blood required. You must refuse the antidote and the codes, the truths and the clarity... and when the Elixir Végétal de la Grande Chanteuse is passed from one mouth to the other, with the most profound affection bordering on madness, you must slay your shadow.

•

   The strangers come and go like phantom sensations in the apothecaries of her nightly charade, when she is pompous and slender, and rich in ambiguity, when her central nervous system idles in its dream-like state of readiness, she licks her claws and grooms her mirrors. Each entrance into the city is triangulated by the green vials of the psyche. The wind is the sea of your eternal flame in waves and particles... where the ruins light up and come to greet you. You are more than one, and touched many times for the invisible light that keeps your presence intact and visible. She eats your fruit. She is multitudinous.

*

   In the stillness of a marvelous holding pattern, the spine-tingling motors are polishing the mandarin threads of night and day. Where the river ends, the flood begins its joyful wailing, and the hour is luminous. The humor of cruelty is especially beautiful.

*

   She moves like a ghost ship on the dance floor, full of springtime and levitation when she turns around, steering the chiaroscuro of brilliant thefts, coincidental exploits, and fitful nights. Her reality needs to end before you are allowed to touch her to the extent that she demands. She and her opposite are a balanced transparency, a talisman of wild dimensions.

*

   You unmask a revelation in the woods at dusk, when it spirals into the city square from underground, and you leave no trace of it for anyone... except the mask it came in, that now covers the sleeping woman. Secret meetings were held involving the thief and his lover, their bodies that dream of their minds, and the secret of the universe––all taking place in the wink of an eye. The wolf always takes her by surprise. The owl denies her questions, yet shares her secrets. A perilous resolution doubles in proportion to the analogy of her random pleasures... She has only just arrived, and she is hungry for diversion. A conspiracy of the human spirit is chiseled in stone. The light is stolen. The darkness illuminated only by your breath, your breathing becomes inspired.

*

The desire to kill someone is equaled only by the desire to bring them back to life again... the rest is immoral.

*

   The clamor of the needle’s eye is the basilisk of the arsenal that precedes your contrasting inventions and conspiracies, by nature very sinuous and ominous, and central to the landscape that beckons you. In your passage from the cyclone to the wasp, by way of the fog, the great fan that unleashes the enchantment of the spark of musical chairs, is the subterfuge of your most sovereign escape. From a distance the ageless wisdom pales by comparison. Resistance is armed and dangerous, like the blacksmith’s regal arc when it stops momentarily to gage the brightness of contact between the hammer and the edge of consciousness. It is the heart of your skill, thoughtless and unreasonable––when you direct the indigo of hot coals toward the horizon with only a vague mumbling through a mouthful of rubies. “It is 3am and all is well...”

*

   There is a sense of both shimmering and encaustique that deals with the anarchy of marvelous interruptions. A mythical presence with an inward shadow. A curious longing, surrounded by insults and wishbones. Your arms as pale as jasmine are fissures in time revealed by the Messengers, in the form of ravenous truths modeling the starry cellars of the drones and the droning of instinct in a raw state of malleable space. Your thoughts follow the flow of synchronous exploration in silence and motion with the tides and the ramparts that keep their circles around you, tuning your weapons.

*

   Neither up nor down, but through and across, from one level out of another, out of bright and feral-shaped eyelids powdered by the gardener’s anticipation and the Oculist’s bride gambling in the lightning fields for the sake of her freshness. She is the scent of phosphorus and cinnabar when it reaches a state of precarious excitation. Her balance burns away the edges of perception, when actuality is inaccessible and yet becomes her lover.

*

   The evening came in like a suit of armor tilting on its axis of winged gears and torches that follow the demise of cities with spells of marvelous longing, and ready for almost anything... Aroused and vigilant beyond reason, your mind blending into the background in the carriage of your face, where transparent glazes recall the fortune of your battle scars and other bells radiant with prime numbers that hiss and clang in the antechamber of desire. The imaginary art of nature is released, like the hanged man when he whispers in his sleep those unfathomable words no longer in fashion. The ardent vessels move of their own volition, emulating the seasons. What is water that is heavier than water and lighter than air, but as fire when it enters your body like the earth in its most nebulous phases?

 

 

 

 

 

   Her appearance is deceptive with vague unsettling, and during her more secretive cycles she casts sirens of diurnal waves. She sleeps while flying beneath the shame of the grottoes, shedding precious stones. Light is neither reason nor illumination, but when she speaks her sameness with shadows covers the surface over for all those lost at sea... their bones collected by mermaids for certain unorthodox experiments. Mystery breathes her into a spell of predatory alignment with certain streets that preclude the obvious. She darkens time, scratching on the wall...

*

   The landscape that is not a lonely procession, but a scent in the armoire of its anatomy, throwing knives through the doors when they open only for your eyes, projecting into dimly-lit ravens... where you wake, from a dream that is not a theory, beneath a sea that is not hysterical in its engine room or in its reverie, in the arms of a costume that is not a vampire, or its reflection that beckons you inward, its tidal wave that makes the astrology of your obsessive passion for asymmetrical insight most acute and remarkable. This landscape that appeals to your flesh with unfamiliar shapes that know only your fires, your blind but precise codes and enigmas, and the endorphins of each assimilation by opposing forces... that illuminate you, and scatter your seeds.

*

   Those women who are lost to you... The art of crime ceases to baffle and amuse––what glows in the silence of the treasure in a single forgiving glance, travels lightest and with the least resistance. That fragrance is your candle and the sepia of your ambiguous roots drawing a precious water from the symmetry of one who sleeps outside of antiquity, becoming smoke. She speaks to you, it is time to leave, there is only the fountain...

*

   The wind with its crystals solving the riddles that spread out in the bride's network of spindles, in the figurehead of her blood, as if by lightning, when the tree of water ladles the navigational mirror, for the widespread dissemination of elemental flaws in the fabric of improper movement... Making fire out of nothing is a faithful duplication of sleep intensified to the point of sadistic windmills. Truth is pointless... For one brief moment, you are eternally caressing her shadow in the dark, and bathing in it like one possessed of the stroke of midnight. Her resolve is tenuous, like your treasure, but brighter than the sun when it grapples with time and place, and timing, especially, is everything. The history of life and death, like witchcraft, is the spirit of place surrounded by reflections.

*

   The wolf is not your child, but your envoy in another structure of being, and its clues are everywhere, unlike the pathology of insurmountable distances, vague gestures or answers to anything. Answers are not real, but only the precursors of ill-timed signals. When she is haunted in her hunting, your locus is an impeccable diversion of clarity, and intuition combined with the thief’s beautiful mother becomes dangerous and precise.

*

   Strategies for navigation have been set apart from all the rest, and adhere to flagrant solutions. She is the one who always vanishes and reappears, more crystalline then before, and easily more forbidden. Notations are everywhere in explanation: 1.) This is not real, but it is dangerous. 2.) Space becomes you, projecting itself in your grooming. 3.) Only her lovers fear her without question. 4.) Night lives inside her thoughts of you. 5.) It is all and for nothing––only the sea of your wedding, the balance of opposition and the fatal mirage.

*

   Resistance is always fertile. When the spirit moves the body and transports the imaginary chemistry of nature inside the flickering devices and larval phases of captured light, there is a presence that appears which never leaves your side. It is the spirit of your place between the empty room and the sphinx, the spirit of alchemical brides and Abyssinian fluids, and the hesitations usurped by collectors from the Far East––those animals that come very close to see inside of you, inside the lapis of your body, and moving the spirit a little off-center, where it was when you first saw it and felt fear.

*

   Stones are breathing light. She knows this from her dream with an absolute certainty. The Praying Mantis of an elated predisposition for Eurasian licorice in the shape of an entirely fictional autobiography. The unknown author. Saboteur. Dark thief. White scarf. An exchange of glances... A body of stones, piled high enough to float above the surface of light, spreading everywhere. Emblems of transparency.

*

   She vowed always to love you more than words. She kept her promise, and died beside you in the silence of a dream... Her feet of cicadas. Her pale throat that always enchanted you, outlined by a scorpion... and a taste of anise on her tongue. Each morning at precisely 6am the world of appearances would rapidly reform itself and light up for those just waking, coughing up the dust of ominous gardens. Her nucleus spinning on the surface, folding the waves into mazes that hang intuitively from a mere reflection of consciousness. The rustling of prey. The howling prevails...

*

   You live your life inside a river and spread out in the darkness, in the garden of blood-letting insects, in the compass of a needle-bearing nimbus that holds sway over what lies just around the corner where the magnetic fields congeal and coalesce in a landslide of sudden recognitions. A mine-field of intuitive apparitions. Flooding... A lunar bridal chamber radiates physiological mornings that pass through you. Bones colliding... When you move by telepathy, a great moth from the Bronze Age abruptly stops, turns and spins on its heels, and begins a long journey in your direction.

*

   The city ignites out of your central nervous system, and you arrive by déjà vu at the turn of the century, with the amorous recording machines that preserve the scents of bewilderment and transitions of each immaculate gesture, and arrange them according to birth dates and other astrological paradigms––as if to tempt the flowering djinn and other diabolical molestations in the streetlights guarding the city. A sultry walk through the phantom zones of consciousness, or waking up in the middle of the night without rhyme or reason... Reflection connected to sleep is no more than a diversion. One sleeps with passion and a furious disregard for mirrors.

*

   Always the vigilance of diving gowns in the recurring vision of the three Ferrymen, and the three precious elements of the three shadows that pull exceeding hard on the threads of the light that shapes them. The shimmer of oxygen impales you. The object of desire is your dissolution.

*

   In the darkest room she is the brightest of living creatures, and when she bleeds inside of you, all the swimmers come out of a deep somnambulant yearning, a major source of intoxication that blends the Sol and the Luna of golden watermarks forced out of mystery, layer upon layer, window upon window, by degrees, the illusive silhouette. The rearrangement of the species is paramount for the chemicals of thought spreading out over the plateau of a perilous flowering of perception.

*

   The armada of translucent temptations slashing the passwords and secret signs that roam the air surrounding the juggler and his beautiful slave, like a crystal in the water, filled with nocturnal power in the nectar of a Spanish sorceress. She is the lost wax flying machine and the "Return to Sender" in the lynx-covered cage of unreason. A letter of obsessive devotion. A breath filled with a disappearing language. The shining pebbles of a cunning escape become the riddle of your presence, eloquent and diffuse.

*

   When she moves in the phantom space of her utopian antipodes, she is a savage glow and the last remnant of her sumptuous mist... Her eggs cracked open and led by horses the color of inexhaustible delight. An architecture of desire forms the amorphous spires that uphold your dream, insinuating itself into the forest that guides your soundless flight.

  *

   She is your fleece with skin of laudanum and hair of antlers, lips of desirable cynosure and steam, and tongue of limpid pollen gathering in the face of danger and seduction beneath eyes of a total eclipse. The dawn slides into the hot, watery, translucent apparition of unbridled acrobatics (les saltimbanques de la réalité) in an occult gathering of golden cobwebs. She is always your double wheel. The light strikes your myth, renders you a feast for the indelible glance. Lepidoptera and quicksilver...

*

    Aphrodisiac of a sudden encounter, once again, after so many years navigating the plastique and the chimera, diaphanous and harsh, when the coals reached their zenith, combing out the long, trembling locks of a inescapable torment and a vague yearning that someone, somewhere was sleeping with you in mind. A black wind was cooing, and spreading its tail of a rainbow frozen in time, somewhere, dreaming of you. Balanced with all that is forgotten and reconciled in its own delirious way.

*

   The slowly fading gong of absolute truth that worships the far-flung perspective of your shadow, is the scent of the moon that makes your bones the center of an unbearable attraction. Ambiguous objects of desire, the dripping rose that shares with you the sense of a resounding and dolorous beauty, the ancestry of time in particles of light that arrive and depart like invisible writing... Who is rendered transparent by your echo? Are you most evident in the early morning, when the sunlight enters your body, bathing you with garnets?

 

 

 

 

 

   If the night is metal, how can you pass through it? If the night is soluble, what keeps you at bay, in the middle of an arc? If the darkness is not real, what is it that prevents you from seeing yourself outside of it? In the distance between one random moment and another, one life and another, each mystery ladles out its unspeakable sex one pure drop at a time... and it still can be heard climbing out of the past. Beguiled by visionary tactics and deafening wings.

*

   On the other side of mint, where the tortured violins and the vials of a liquid that resembles a starry night––only more intense––the shroud of your purity vibrates with a blissful suffering that outlives you. A sacrifice is cultivated out of the forest, and gleams in the distance like a watchtower, or an ineffable pause. Arson is an occult philosophy of immeasurable wealth, and aligned with the seasons of space and precision, it reaches an elemental state of bilingual exhaustion. Dreams are inevitable.

*

   The wolf sustains its primal flowering according to the brightness of your blood. She licks your paws and you are a flood, a wave of future lives extracted from the oils of lost lives that are simultaneous with the living ones, and they, in their resplendent collisions, are so small that they dwarf the ones that defy gravity... when not being seen they are much larger than life and twice as real. The liquid of sleep is magnetic. A river germinates you, and survives your petals. A flash of chemicals shapes your appearance.

*

   She swallows your dreaming fluids, salivating your dark and luscious nectar that glows, and spreading her legs for you with the licking of animals in a night spray of multiple deaths and resurrections, hovering over the inside of your center, starless and panting, and self-impregnating... a brief handful of shimmering cells. This night stays longer than all the rest, and the waking is bright with pain and the phantom healing of the wind. Sown and cultivated, each of your individual elements and your solutions balanced between gypsy women and talismans that burn your hands. You crawl out of the dark soaked in ancient pleasures.

*

   The euphoria of the hunters, and the insufferable plummeting device that hangs over the proceedings like a squall when it mimics the ethereal buzzing of sexual excitement, brings you a sweet repose that rivals the torment of the enchanter’s mourning widow. Her objects are squalid and priceless. She is compelled by a dream sequence that can be released from the rules of the game. She dreams of a sea that carries the messages of her arrival in the arteries of space... Everywhere there are fresh signs of duplicity.

*

   When you sever the window from its history, and cut it open, your blood is a luminous root system in the molecular forest that makes of the city a volatile and plenary beauty that swims at the speed of light. A ravenous beauty with thoughts not unlike your own, when you dissolve...

*

   The flesh of sparks over bones of water was breathtaking, and when it began to radiate according to the history of stars dying throughout the ages, simply by breathing on it, there was a confluence of reflections more genetic even than the landscape altered in its direction to watch and bear witness. The whole of it lashed up by a block and tackle to suspend judgment, and then heated to the color of sunlight. Forever it seemed the vessel of air and wind and turmoil trembled in its simplicity; forever the joy of antithetical diversions would light up their corridors with the foliage of your reckless passion, the way tigers would charm you with their disguises. Licking your eyes they would make love to you with their breath, and then bathe you in hunger and give you a phantom life. A charming diversion at best...

*

  When the candles of her evening stroll triangulate and dispense with the footsteps that change places with the proximity of poisoned thorns, like the sweetest of kisses––from dusk through dawn she is the hushed nemesis and the ubiquitous forgery, and her portrait is baffling in its shadows––and for the reasons that foretell the perceptive qualities of waking and remembering everything, she is nowhere to be found. Her reflection is bleeding through the window, and her shadow commands your desires.

*

“You are only the first of many liberties taken, and I am your healing weapon that draws the consciously golden gears from your enchantment, and sifting them with an unbelievable turbulence, from flight to longing, to vertigo and into veils that torment the eyes... I will milk your double hive and make it burn out of darkness, intersecting and dissecting the precarious movement of each precious ablution. They would kill us if they knew... that we are the other light in the world around us...”

*

   Consciousness is what everyone believed was not a tangible form, but that, in itself, was pure fiction; hybrid bodies of light were immoral. When the river spawned and evoked the spilling of weightlessness, she was the crime of paradox and the fever of a deception that makes love to its own shadow...

*

   She perceives you from before, when you can’t remember where you were, for the intensity of your present recognition and the alignment of familiar spaces... there is a very real and vivid impression that takes you off balance, for a moment which isn’t there. Your name changes and your face takes root in numerous waves that fade in and out mysteriously. In the mirror of birds you have been there even now. In the right light you go there often, without moving from the place that passes through your own perilous facets, at all angles. The phases of your origins are numerous and unthinkable. Each moment slides...

*

   There is gold in your structure, bringing light to the many surfaces that may be provocative or divisive. From a distance you appear to be missing and exquisite in all that resembles you. When you wake, you are no longer there... only your illusion survives. Your levels are baffling and the extract of your presence––the one that glows for you––has been distilled beyond measurement, and she, on the other hand, runs ahead, following what remains of you that does not glow. Time is a subtle kindling.

*

   The loveliest of all creatures burns brightly in her withering. She is the fugue of a double life, twin measures in the figural process, lovers growing together, striking the perfect chord. You are always betrayed by her and multiplied. The sun creates doorways that open what desire brings into play. She is armed and dangerous. Her signals are resplendent mazes. Night is luminous and empty. Cells reproduce in obscure and dark splendor, leaving messages filled with sparks. Seizures of rain.

 

 

 

 

 

   The doors of pandemonium slowly open the bathing bodies that chose in unison not to remember, but rather forcing premonition as a key to being where one desires. Neither awake nor asleep... you wander the thoughts that compel your illuminations out of the forest, veiled and harsh, in the shape of carnivorous moths, restless and mournful. The lamps that embrace them, and the sister of your hunger that covets their appetite by surrendering to them.

*

   The night is living within you, with its clamoring systems of renewal and banishment, its fierce elements of undeniable movement, so close to the way you often present your own, your starlit dimensions that arc and yield with a freshness unequaled among all living mechanisms, that dissipate in streams, grinding through mountain ranges, spill out in lava like mannequins in perpetual motion ground up into intimations of Braille... to be touched, bruised and inhaled. Cruel sensations, clairvoyant reasons.

*

   There are fossil remains in the watchman’s imaginary denials. He sleeps without a name, without a sense of the time that eludes his efforts. The spirit of the landscape lit up from behind, out of which consciousness springs fully lucid with images that vibrate into possible combinations, all of which assault the impossibility of itself. The reflection of consciousness is its shadow. Your presence is soluble when the wind passes through, and you recognize yourself, the darkness of yourself in the landscape that is transparent.

*

   The underground rivers and lights, the mayhem of a tropical storm that burns the ribcage of the sleeper who dreams of lightning as a soft and compliant source of discontent, a battleground of malicious roses emitting the pure phoenix of your eyes, in the dark rain that leads you, aligns your masts to the spinning, aberrant wedding gown of a marvelous hemorrhage that cools in the first fire... the splendid vase of your breath, a daughter of lace-making and precious insects whispering in unison. Wandering in another country, gambling in thorns. She leans against you, drawing blood.

*

   At the edge of reality, near the borders of consciousness where the humming molecules collide with the shores of a glance that leaves you and wanders off on its own... Your veil of wolves. Your thoughtful rain of wolves. Your wolf shimmer and intonation. The sunlight of wolves. In your aspect and in the fear of eyes, leading the blind to the feast. No wind nor stars lead this physical realm to the offering and the sacrifice. She howls for you and plays with your bones...

*

   The figures meeting in silence, voyeurs of their spirits when they disrobe and loom the passages of unquiet cabinets and abandoned coats that stalk the sense of undeniable attraction. The curious object of eyes illuminating the bodies of night. It is fear that invents the noblest of exploits, and joy that uncovers the most profound disguise. She is elusive, you are cryptic, the object of your procession through the taste of witches somehow seems to catch the radiance that unravels steadily behind the city like a supernatural calculus. The dream wakes you, as always, but you are still beside yourself.

*

 

   Through you can be seen the downpour of space into bones and voice through light, in a living furnace that glitters and melts your name and your memory like so many questionable answers, so much midnight oil that binds the particles of her fingers to the spores of your awkward warmth dispersed over the arc-welder’s magical conspiracy... He casts a wicked arc with all the major themes of revolt (against the very meaning of life itself) burned into the metal of a reckless embrace. All in slow-motion, in the semi-darkness, on the terrace, in a foreign city, a thousand years ago, radiant without color and with just a touch of abnormal brilliance in character... One can feel the elements evolving.

*

   When she touches your hunger with hers, when the eyelids of an encounter with the magical arts takes hold of your gesture: a sinister angle, an affectation of distance, and that trademark of the palm being grazed, when the sea folds the vitreous eggs of the city into your aura, when the last craftsman betrays the secret affinities between the table of rubies and the gift of flight, when there is no truth fascinating enough to sustain the mystery of silk in Central Asia, when sleep threatens the lighthouse of order...  

 

*

 

   When there is no mystery fascinating enough to sustain the truth of anything worthy of expectation, you refuse to accept, and choose instead to defeat all that comes between you and the perfect glance, the flawless dive.

 

 

 

 

 

   You lick the salamander of her face and nourish the eyes into full bloom, tempting into a motion resembling the light of a distant star that has long since disappeared, and then when no one is looking, like an unfinished embrace or an abandoned moment of ecstasy that becomes a part of an uncertain landscape, breathtaking, angular and lucid, with demonic hues, encoded and undecipherable, you pass through it, the breaking of your levels tips the scales at a depth impossible to gauge, when language forms itself into something more naked and torrential. You are more infinite when you erode and burn. A single pearl crushed by light.

*

   She releases the gears from her bodice of swirling smoke, and the amazing dew from an early Spring morning fires up the explosives of antiquity, and scatters the breath of snipers along the diamond-shaped edges of overlapping psychological quadrants. Her ridiculous diving-rod cries out like a female lover’s sense of starry-eyed anguish... a feral suit of armor reaches through stone, licking it’s paws, and lifts up a naked brightness filled with the blood of night. Howling is a sweetness pierced by a soluble caress, merging your shadow with her reflection. Consciousness is a solar flare... Magic is your madness and the plague that heals your aftermath, the active ingredient, the check-mate reversed upon the spirit of the landscape––the bride of spinning carbon wielded to the amorous Raven Grinder, and their daughter, the heartbreaking propeller, who keeps them alive, feeding on their constellations. 

*

   “If you kill me, I will kill you, and the swirling of our prism will spin faster, and the light that inhales us is our nucleus together in a heart-murmuring shell of blackest night, our paradise like a fuse that enlivens even our sensual transparency. A state of innocence mimics the flying away of endless shelves, perpetual membranes, parchments and each glowing husk. If I adore you, you will adore me, and our priceless vessel will destroy even the clamor of departures, and our arrivals will landslide in a perfume of haunting that beckons even the spirits that beguile us with paradox. You will see me, and I will see you, as if we had never opened our eyes...”

*

   Her gown slips past you, when you are reading, and leaves the imprint of a revelation, a bitter tasting imperative that resembles a knife or a kiss to erase whatever hesitations that still linger, that disguise your carnal and impractical needs of self liberation. She leaves you a taste of mint under your tongue, and a sensation of unusual implications that challenge you, and inspire your demise. She is your cognitive approach, and the implement of a lunar rampart that burns your flesh with her branches and makes conscious the surge of crystal that is the wing of your breath. The wind ignites you and your eyes of landscape are duplicitous and foreboding.

*

   Navigation will always be inspired by master astrologers from the Orient, scintillating ambassadors leaving no mystery unturned, and coaxing out of dark places the most unreasonable perfumes to quell the fears of powerful intuitions that dazzle your grave markings. Your trust in the errant façade is toned with acid. The mad sepia of quarries idealizes the diaphanous bodies and transplants of your causality... through every change of your presence, for the other by another, there remain the divergent gauges of thought-provoking absence. The notes you left behind were filled with obscure references to archaic cosmologies, while the images themselves brokered regal doubts... as to where exactly, and when, you danced by starlight in the slaughterhouses. Wondrous ligatures remained...

  

*

   The moth in its own furnace of ghostly occurrences is the spyglass that shapes the earthly bodies and their subliminal halos. You are always awakened, always dislodged by night through the structure of reality, in spite of your eyes and her nearness, her warmth, to prefigure all the major themes of revolt. “I give to you, my love, a secret extraction steeped in unsavory devices and exploits, and a matriarchy of measurement, for this displacement and this migration, over the water of consciousness like a heavy moaning sensation, in this conjured formula, these endless functions, for all the empathy that smashes through your consummation... a stream of starry windows in a black heart.”

*

   Her eyes are always the fluid that flows between your past and beyond those eyes, with only a vague recognition of all that went before, and when you arrive ahead of all she sees tomorrow, in your eyes, a bodiless shadow, a mirror-less reflection, will release the golden egg from its dark and birdlike vise, a jeweler’s model of adoration hung from the rafters in all its splendor, a shuddering interference. Only a dream keeps the rendezvous dangerous. The earth is humming where bodies are luminous.

*

   Spinning around in the room that unravels the midnight stroll from the Aurora Borealis, one amorous caress after another, without regard for endangerment or squalor, leaves no room for hesitation. A certain grace, with details bordering on obsession, a severely proportioned glance like a haunted key that opens the wedding night doused with tungsten as an imaginary potion, and the procession of watchmakers who know neither night nor day... A moral imperative more sublime than murder.

*

    Light of breath, exhaustion of shade, gesture of rain objectified in a language that covers your body with precious stones ground into constellations that vibrate with the first avalanche of awareness, waterfall of memory and chalk, blind envoi feeling for roots in fire, woman of those blueprints neither recognizable nor forgotten, blood of wind and ether, the watchman howling in the déjà vu of the landscape’s witch-powered flesh.

*

   Consciousness is colorless, like transparent Fluorite cubes when they summon the warriors with dreams, and then place them, for the edges of her face through which can be seen the embers of night still burning in the distance like glass, where the last to leave are vanishing in her eyes, behind her, their emblems and dark numbers, their magic and their pale bodies making the landscape ovulate for the city, you are the dim past and the artifacts of abandoned whispering... through looking. Impossible tracings...

*

   Beginning with a mirrored entrance, the wind comes through who you were, with its starlight gathering the throat of Sumerian milk like an eclipse that brings to life each additional shadow glowing in the vases, and they spread before you by the pollen of unknown movements never imagined before. You gesture with eggs harboring visions that secrete the dark, crack open the seeds that flood the earth of here and there, emit the ambiguous particles bringing in each and every waking moment, exhale the precious stones spinning in the blood of each illusion that wakes you and echoes you, and begins in another shape in the middle of another séance, where you are not, one of the seers...

*

   “Dearest Phantom, I am always awaiting your reticent perambulations... the ones with the slanderous afterthoughts and the careless enticement of the cross-fires set up for the unwary––to flounder, disorient, and resonate for the capillaries and tissues of enchantment. My eager solstice conflicts with the suffering of arrivals, and my fugitive landing-sites are vicious and untamed, for you, for your thirst of eyelids, and the manner in which you subvert the sublime affectations of distance. An ageless blur, here, at noon... a resolute sense of extremely elegant eroticism, above, but slightly off to the left... a sinister flow of auburn, touching the nape of your neck, in the background... and the burnt-out shells of an immoral solution growing out of stone, lower, beneath your feet. I evolve into your weapon, and enfold golden scimitars and superior objects into the slender pools of your occultation, bringing suns into the bestiary of unexpected liaisons––exchanging facial expressions, capturing feverish and uninvited spasms... Your surrender is everything, and the power of an imaginary interface lights up the shadows of a devastating glance. There is nothing more precious than that glance...”

 

 

 

 

   It is the wolf in the cellular aspect of the city, with your eyes and the fullness of the owl’s bright and plenary silence that evens the score in their collision, by the slight-of-hand, for the inclusions of a daring light...

*

   Across the central layer of everything that is deliberate and concealed, the moon forms a skeletal vantage point from which the brides in their passion release the wolves and the children at the very same moment. Beneath the fire that arches body-wise and spectral in its chemical nature, the site of being is unmoved and pristine as it was since the beginning of time, and where you come to the realization of a murderous joy and a maddening evocation. Only the illusion of time can reveal your conflict and your nature. The dream destroys you and makes you real...

*

   The wind with its crystals solving the riddles that spread out in the bride's network of spindles, in the language of her blood as if by lightning, when the tree of water ladles the navigational mirror for the widespread dissemination of elemental flaws in the fabric of meaning, and for one brief moment, caressing her shadow in the depth of a thought, in the center of the shallows where the secret life of identity considers its options, and moves with impunity and concise abandon.

*

   You turn towards the light, just a little, to pinpoint the fullness of that dark imbalance imprinting on your sense of a desirable touch, bathing your angular imposture in direct relation to the dress-maker’s dummy, the ill-timed fleece and the panting hounds that make room for the atmosphere to unwind its mutable threads. Your gift is your undoing, although little else matters. The golem melts. Life passes from mouth to mouth...

*

   A desirous field of anthropomorphic migration both decisive and haunted, one upon the other like a rotating prism both delicate and wisely savage.... like a demonic cat’s-cradle that shames the darkness into light, with its claws and by its fangs, with a gown of spines and a voice of quicksilver that brings the gears of intricate passion into magical alignment. This is the doorway that passes through your orphanage. The coat that follows you and resembles the reindeer of the fog, is your bearing, your passage and your interval held up by the sparks of your breath.

*

   You are pale and fused in light, blurred in the entrance of a darkened distance that comes close to touch you, your nerve endings flower and glisten in the streams like precious stones hurled across invisible places and the entrances of others, the sea reaches up to kiss your mouth, the forest brings planets into your blood and spins it all upon the axis of an adolescent turning-point, shimmering in the curious splendor of neither shadow nor reflection, but both... truth is invisible, and the wind of antlers troubles you, and does not trouble you, but is everywhere the same, filled with stars in the wolf house... unseen. The emulsion fades when you touch it.

*

   The water that sees you, vibrates when it multiplies the torment of your bliss, in a venerable persona passing in every direction through the numbering and naming of every moment of a knowledge that isn’t yours, but meets you half way. In the anthracite stillness of your expectations, you find her by the inviolate shape of her dreamless vanishing point, hanging from the ceiling and casting reflections of an ageless quest for absolute presence.

*

   The air that forms you and moves closer to the secret calculations of whatever anxious pleasure awaits you and drives your loving displacement of dimension, the earthly good fortune of being that looks in your direction, cherishes your ruthless movements and challenges you endlessly with the iris of repeatable moments. Mythology follows you like the clamor of totems dripping the honey of irrational time. Absolute probabilities! Pluralities! Your murmuring is not specific to any place, and your dream is not alone...

*

   Each morning, just moments after the hour of waking, the crisis of resolute perception craves its indirect and passionate stimulus, and begins to shed its awkward disguise. The pain of the chrysalis precedes your tender and irrevocable eyelids by centuries, by touching, by the tearing asunder and by wordless adoration–– she is unavoidable. The light trembles and fills in all the aching gaps. You feast for her, and she avalanches. Night bleeds.

*

   There are twelve vessels filled to the level of fruit-bearing detachment, and twelve equally unsettling doorways through which pass the endless questions and ephemeral directions, poised delicately on the edge of forgetting everything, once again, and twelve distinct phases of exile and rebellion, constantly shifting the intensity of each caress, each kiss and every conceivable position, that you find yourself irresistibly drawn to assemble within yourself, for her favor, the lunacy of incorrigible desire.

*

   Thoughts like towers made of landscape and earthly space take root in the appearance of things that detach sleep from its mirror.

*

   The secret life of identity imagines its glowing body of correspondence in the replenishment of transparency and the    sinister fruit of a fresh eclipse.

*

   A spirit of wolves will soil the moon when it bathes in your dream. The bath is your emerald and the source of your power. “You must drown in it...”

*

   An evening stroll is far more enchanting for the hallucinatory properties of your hands then for the center of the world where beautiful corpses are growing their perfect roses, in perfect disharmony. A pure condensation...

*

    Your leaning toward the darkness that is shimmering in the gold leaf of exceptional tides, personifies the telepathy of a sensuous lightning. If you slide by intuition, troweling up and outwards, curving into the waist... even one moment of hesitation is sublime... The mortar is deadly nightshade. Death follows immediately and passage continues like an obsession.

*

   In the obligations of mystery, for reasons of breathless apprehension, you will see yourself in the elemental solutions of life, humming and birdlike, but flowered with obscure grace and profane with love, tempered in the crossing between threshold and starry dust. A savage illumination... Your voice is not your voice, but the distinct and elongated characters of questionable conjuring. The rain always projects your longing into the void. The objects of potential are the rubies of gravity.

 

*

 

   She will always be unfinished, and always propitious in her salutations that pinhole the rapturous Spine-Tingling Gown of Riddles half-eaten by the epistemologies of spiders that would be candles lit by the autonomous chairs swirling around the table of tribes and intrauterine-triggered gongs bringing in the new year for the fortune teller’s belated anguish and the linguist’s doppelganger: for whom do they pose? In what manner do they ignite the forlorn wheels of exasperation and flowing liquids of disruption? When, especially, are they superb marksmen... and by what veils do they forge the most amorous betrayals? With what precision do they navigate the refraction of shifting shapes? Dawn is the Abyssinian bride of knowledge, and the desperate eggs of wisdom. Dead reckoning is immaculate.

*

   There is the ravishing of the lock and the subversive arts practiced in deteriorating photographs and films of unsuspecting innocence carved into the luminosity of stone, above the shawl, along the edge of her neck forever receding... It all resembles an hourly spell for the Gate Watchers and their savage pets, their dream-like interpreters, their disproportionate spirits who contemplate the key figures of ambiguity brandishing all that slips joyfully ahead of you, arriving and departing in the archways that bring together the sacred slabs and cross-sections of your crystalline adherence to a reckless resolution. Thoughts tempting shadows out of useless endgames...

*

   On which side of the mirror is the entrance besieged by desire?

*

   Is it life or death that crosses the line between the dark hair of a curious attraction, and the arms of desperation––or the pendulum that bridges the lightning between what is perceived and what is hidden?

 

* 

   From the moment when everyone gathered for the final scene, to the fleece of supernatural oils outdistancing the shoulder of radiant blades, leaning in together, half in and out of the light, and often barely visible, barely touching and yet, separating the fire from the water, they filtered through the magically receding landscape of the place that bears your features and your name, and mirrored on all sides by the wind that powers your blood. In those fiercely guarded moments, silence was not golden, nor were they, in their unfashionable perspectives, meant to be (after all), peopled by silence, or more translucent by degrees when struck by gold... They gather for their shadows, behind their reflections, where the earth fluctuates sometimes and renders the foreground more clandestine, more elastic and luscious, while stirring it into fascinating andirons of a spectral reconnaissance.  The force of iron becoming soluble where the stars are thin slices of consciousness. The chemicals flow like whispering, and the scattering is sentient basalt! A den of thieves... A vigilance... A furnace of transparency...

*

   The gathering of wolves forces the darkness, even more radiant and pure, into objects of erotic humming. A dream rendering a dream calls your proportions into play... and you are gone from where you were. The candle burning upwards through her body that denies the normal inward flow of fire, and instead of melting, prefers the clarity of wind raised to the level of night and the violence of a dream. She is the ordering of light.

*

   There is nothing more beautiful than the interruption of darkness that does not know you, but illuminates you without saying a word.

 

 

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Notebook of The Wolf House

 

 

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