"Daughter of a methodical volcano, she recognized herself in that glass of water placed before her like a cry." -Jacques Lacomblez
Auré is a series of mechanical signals crash-landing into light. A genetic discourse, a treatise of disguise and vague irony. If phantoms collide when the sun is a veil between warring masks, there will be the blinding hazard of being studied and gazed upon by voyeurs. Keyless in exceptional delirium. Dark locks, secret and illusive locks (sudden bodies refracting in sunlight), where the Dress of Squalor would come in late summer evenings to kindle in the city those great black wings and hissing looms. Perpetual discord vibrating under covers.
After the lighthouse there were endless nights and living rooms fraught with constellations and cries of northern lights. The reindeer princess gestating in the anti-myth of what cannot be seen, mutations of a drift out of consciousness. In permutation... she is spawning. The lower half of the Ω stakes a claim in the rich cochineal and silver of prehistoric bookmaking. At midnight the piano tuner places a winning number in the wrong hands. The hero and heroine refuse to agree, setting anarchy into motion with the moonlight of misplaced eyeglasses. Wandering becomes an art of disagreement…
The model is ruthless in apprehension, while her bearing forbids paradise, her fuse breeds multiple infractions. The misfortune of fair weather ending in a vague biography. Silence tempts the golden means and the jester’s card, releasing the glance from solitude, for a life inside sunlight. The glance, tricked by time into sovereign cabinets, chasing philters arranged by yearning, returns to a source of swanlike ecstasy. She rubs herself into countless arcs.
It remains in translation... “Just after midnight the candle would announce your arrival, which coincides with the departure of the King, searching for his bride, the violence of the wind...” which evokes the electromagnetic coil spinning out its fine shimmering, fleece-like, its dark red, sentinel-faced, rupturing, crucial wellspring. The skin covering her bones out of letters. Grinding out dewcolored webs... coal-fired... "There's light among precious bones. Animal solutions.
Dig deeper, my love..."
The royal dogs with their roses appeared at the door, and the exchange of weapons prevailed. Night slipped into chambers. Fired into targets rooting. Among allies and their shadows (above, left...) with knowledge, only knowledge generating words for no other purpose, (wrapped around the key.) In Les Mystères des Arcades she forces out her eggs with pale arms and distraught symbols. Life is whirling in the garden, moaning, disfigured. Light is a child’s iodine.
Your breath guided by aurelia fingers, inhabit the veins of identity, choosing to strike back. The balance between the menacing eggs of an open window, and living and dying in the tropics, in your own barely audible arms, a constellation against your breast, taking root. The fundamental logic of misfortune is filled with jutting hipbones hoarding seductive elegies. Edging enchantment. Molting in burial mounds, in the Chambre Noire of Ibn al-Haytham sewing up for light the femme-enfant of an object injected as a wedge of fiery transparency.
Silence, ocelot. Absence, ancillary reveal. To elude, emitting reflection on water, the body’s imprint, becoming landscape. Vague layers trampling symbols underfoot, chemise of latent meanings flourishing in the hidden street, the higher desert and the dancing gryphon scraping doors off the forest. Fog-beings at the Emu-threshold. Light-breathers. The aurora inhaled produced a sound that shook the foundations of eros, propelling the absent-minded wishbone into the harping body of a dream. A labyrinth of bathing spells prevails. A renegade and perpetual glow, wisely confounding.
Auré is a sequence of significant others, enabling light in darker shades of gazing like water, well-oiled machines fading, mysterious keys and unfathomable notes, passwords that linger in the mouth like willful testaments of disregard and mint-shaped obscurities. Wandering spirits that wisely pilfer more intensely, frightfully, in knowledgeable ways, to secure the rights of preferable exile, existing out... while the killer hum of seeing-eye statues is foolishly tormenting dawn. The heat of kissing in your sleep...
Between form and being, desirable, forming crystal is activating invisible clay, the fission of a woman during an eclipse. Breathing in the emptiness of a stone, only to be cast... The silence enters you from behind, without mercy, the purity of sabotage in the hours of reciprocal projections. A word within each word, the replacement, and the cancelling out. Dragging a trembling glow out of dark spaces. Carpathian footsteps, seeing through night grillwork, watery light, a lapidary manifestation of an empty street, in the phase of accomplices, between the eyes and the lips, where “Shh... Don’t utter a word!” crosses paths with “It will always be dark for you, my charming pet...” spitting tungsten.
Invisible stones, perfect omens out of your mouth, preceded by the red dust of skittering lizards instilling trance, without lines or borders, crafting witches out of smoke and milkweed, for an elusive doppelgänger... half masquerade in focus, half awkward wager on a sure thing, the peril of glands stalking. “In whose lineage the almost, on the brink, of a terrifying closeness, a touch, my loved one, vagrant utopia... in whose habitual cowl the corrosive perfumes tempt and define, and shatter, in caressing, bathing quicksilver. In whose pleasure dwells swimming and tongues intruding into wet fur...” The text abandons its body, feasting.
Auré sleeps under your eyelids, beneath the mortar where seasons rummage in autistic cleverness, cracking shells open to enter the instinct of light. Heavily armed with signatures, forged consciousness. You interpret the abundant fields of covert interruptions and alliances, as the solace of adolescent orientation, the plateau of sacrificial embers, radiates profound similarities. The opening into morning is an intensive penetration of the vault. The river slows to a crawl. The words are spoken black.
“The wind, leopard...” “The rain, assassin...” The book, sister to the belltower, gathering steam, remote from the forest, burnt by moonlight into a longlimbed calyx that spins around in circles, repeating your name, a coupling of numbers, kissing only water, savage computations. Shadowboxing with consciousness. Life is that breath of Jívaro dust blown into the face. A clockwork scent drawing blood, where indigo climbs into darkness.
Light that circles bones wrenching glances out of suspicion, grinds a city out of sparks, a fierce prism, turning to wail an entrance. Between breathing and the hive, there are only a handful of words to separate your blood from the medium of secret formulas. The beekeeper sleeps. The assassin swims. Auré, nearest night, is a black widow spinning a flood... A memory of missing pyramids. A stolen kiss darkening noon like a razor blade.
Karl Bogartte (2012)