Selections – J. Karl Bogartte


They might wallow in the arcs, licking down the precious curve, eyes pinned for lepidoptera, whispering eccentricities, a very silent gasp. You fulfill the desert spaces, inflowering arc. The languid fruit of torches. A conspiracy of starry nights left unattended… Unexplained…


Darkness is a tribal chant. An affair of agitation. Unthinkable germination.


Memory is that clock ticking in the dark, flooding the room with pearls, setting fires in a way that enables a sense of pathos with long painfully soft envelopes addressed to “the way she moves.” A poisonous flower crushed between your legs. A melancholy gesture, between shadows.


The future belongs to the assassin and to the bride in transition indistinguishable from a literal translation. Her portrait is a window dragged out of darkness and wiped with blood. She is the knife splitting tongues to facilitate silence with barely detectable movements, sliding into desperation. Twin solutions of the bird of prey. Forked. Improper negotiations can be fatal without an impenetrable shield. Daylight is no longer logical.


Always your movement implies a forgery of the double-cross, to increase light, moving to conspire appropriately. A mothering device hidden among fractures, synaptic decisions, “the way her index finger barely insinuates a decisive affliction” and “Oh, but she has not been here for many years…”Pouring gold into unavoidable cracks.


The distance between you and your emulation is exceeded only by the claw marks on the door to your last identity, to the cluster of lasting impressions, ambiguous remarks, embedded codes, punctuated sighs, the rattle of evening horns and the guards, drugged and dreaming. You have no plans to return. There is no silence more luxurious than this. No meanings sufficient enough… Shadows penetrate words.“But, you will return… inevitably figured, deciphered, with other words, a deeper hunger, your body transparent as light…”


Grace is the art of luring ravenous dogs into a state of springtime.


The word arouse deliberates in unseemly fashion, stalks the flight of stairs just ever so slightly above the phrase: “There is nothing to question, only the light hovers in its cage”,andlife in the garden is rancid with constant trembling, a garden in a frenzy on the other side of the street, another world undreaming itself.


No one wanders the perimeters without slouching, or without lunar diversions tending to throw the scent like a voice across a lake, allowing for invisible passage. Rubbing females together produces a sound unlike any other, and always causes a sudden change of weather, like a hurried change of clothing, in the dark, in the middle of a recurring dream.


Writing in the dark is swallowing light, a face of Alexandrian spindles in fierce combat with rapidly stroking lynx, your image smeared. Fatal to the touch, throwing capillaries. She is tantamount to a fire-glance, transmitting seeds that sting and flare up, warming the roots, a friction of the foreground. A pathology of arousal in clairvoyance, glistening stains. Listening with rain.



Animating the solitude of helmets intimidating night-hungry theatre. An illusionary pandemic of darkness, lamping, lymphing, crawling along the edges, converging, that ridiculous light from your body clears away whatever debris resists it. Slipping into an unspoken “touché.” The dead man’s bluff. A sequence of events not ordered by insanity of reason…


The sun inside, on the other body of the moon, spitting out the pearls of dawn… “no, swallowing them…” The leper’s kiss, a hive of bright planets under your dress. The deer legs, the fire skimming across the water, interrupted by speaking, throwing words, conspiring to contaminate, spilling a flesh-like fog. Resistance is a derisive luminosity. a desert council on the prowl…


Threading each selection for acute proximities against aggressive numbers, shadowy and seductive numbers, those in the ambush and the clustering. To repeat “the shadow” and “the reflection” as often as necessary to affect an unreasonable glow. Where variance is the opposite window, opening the double-cross, throwing magnets to destabilize the arrival of appearances. Where they are visible only in the dark…


The solace of the hunt, scent of the sense that seeing takes your eyes through the forest, and through the city walls, fire of the kill, virtues of a higher order of gravity…


Aspects of prediction, reasonably troubled, perturbing the edges in a quandary of caresses to outline the inner constellations, fragments of silence to raise sirens, a species of phantom to contain your body, intact and bewildering and albino. The torn layers of a ghostly body, the necessity of an encoded species that forms the nervous system of all that swims and then dives, jarring the bell, somewhere… “your identities are revolving in the archives.”


What is lucid in your presence, however tentative, is the attitude of transparency, in its active state, which is a furious refusal – not simply to mystify, but to remove all doubts. The sense of nakedness violated with pleasure, and disfigured with a passion to exchange places, when the landscape intervenes. To visualize fire, engender it, yet remain nebulous and orphaned by chance, and choice, firing through the ashes… The virus of a window.


They pinnacle in the garden and fabricate spirits, grappling with tokens wrapped up in the radiant slime of merging, and hiving, in dark corners. Sistered and daughtered… Licking up your breath, splatters, subliminal attitudes of a fresh kill, sipping blood from parted lips.


Your shadow thrown, pinnacles into mistaken identity, extracting a sunken awareness of regal disproportion.A lunar pelvis breaking silence into the hemophilia of a nightly charade. Hypnos is a shattering device. A tincture of warring presence.


Theatre of mutation, following the caress. Movement of the body following the hands, stillness of your shadow, eating her way out of abundance and annotation, a babel, jabbering in Arabic. Priming the seizure, spawning against the current. La Mandrágora…


The distance between presence and pleasure is the speed of light, the revolving effigy reduced to the intrigue of desolate angles. On a pedestal fed with womanly delight, the broken vessels release the devastation of your whispers. The cinema opens on a street of suspicion, where your gestures outline the sense of emitting slender crystals, your sign, passport into the forest, where mummies are wrapped and numbered 1 thru 21 and spun into gold. You feed provocation its bright and ignoble splendor.


“There’s an idiot savant wrapped in the wings. The lamp is a curtain call of surprise endings, a fortune-teller’s demise and the howling of chance. Your blood is the taste of a winning number and a mercenary sense of living without the gravity of targets. I am your precious barricade, and your singular urge. I am your instinct, teeth sinking into all that shimmers in your heavy warmth…”



J. Karl Bogartte


About thefiendjournal

I was born in Blackpool, England and am currently based in Lancashire. Poems have been published in magazines in the U.K, Ireland, France, New Zealand, Canada, U.S.A and South Korea. A pamphlet; "MMV", was published in 2008. Hundreds of poems have been written in draft form, and multiple books are being planned and edited for future release. As well as editing 'The Fiend' I translate, paint and dabble in photography (images of which have occasionally been used here).
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