The Tinkering Machine

July 17, 2012

From: AURÉ (A Narrative)

Filed under: Uncategorized — photomorphose @ 9:08 am

   There is only the moon with vague rumors and the whispering brothel of the last “I love you” ever spoken, the dream that is not a dream, but the corrida of the veil, the “more, deeper, yes!” cast for a parallel series across the harbinger light… The hive-song harboring and the corrupt Isis shaped by pleasure, your peculiar confrontation with the wolf-gaze diving into a golden haze. The hazard of splendid remains. A fire against empty appeals, an appearance, that disappears, turning to stone.

    Night is incandescent, an assayers’ dream. Auré is an emerald in the vice of recurring dreams, words surrounding the shape of events. She spreads her narrative, feels the separation of wayward spirits in the balustrades of her anticipation. Opening an inconsolable night of ancient wills, conscious paraffin secretes a certainty of crescent arms… A carbon arc of navigating presence once belonging to the body, passing through the pause of an impossible dive, dragging the harsh facets of a poignant groping into primal color. You wander aimlessly, other than yourself, in the shadows. Between the stirring of others, with bird-like features into rain.

    Light hisses, when dimensional flux is honed by tuning appetites. A lair of increasing desires, skilled in the artifice of arousal and the counterfeit poses, forced, into dissolving portraiture. Auré captured and riddled, defaced by insinuation and annoyance, ibis-driven, shadow of words. Placed among statues with subversive intent to ridicule, the great spinning helmets turn a circle into a stampede. The sea is the stain of your eyes. Seeing is undoing, while being watched, as variegated and haphazard as a loving detonation. Your grasp is a lunar addiction to whatever is invented to reflect each and every one of the pivotal positions of Auré. A fresh sequence of breeding…

    Nothing returns to the origin of having lived beyond the present. When phosphorus enters the forbidden properties, no one presumed a return. You, especially, expected every conceivable sign. Panes of light under duress. Swollen cobalt and blood-emerald gambling. You hovered, chalking inconsolably. You held light in your hands, being coaxed into apprehension. You offered gifts, perplexing layers, the most obscure words and phrasing. You leave the text by dubious means, a vertical sundial in the warehouse of secrets.    


    Auré tips the scales in favor of an absolute disregard for missing phrases. And given the alternating gaze, the filial bird of prey with her Eleusinian mysteries igniting signs in empty rooms. Her lubricating mechanism skewering the horizon… a psychological twilight with hatching of eggs. There is only the shadow feverishly conversing with another. Resonating darknesses. Interpreting the breathing, the breathless ones, the tracing of recurrent bodies, the effortless ones, dwarf and royal ones, interpolate and lupine. The phantoming cascade.

    Presence is aberration, dowsing. Absence is the fluctuating salamander and the eerie foreshadowing of a draftsman’s “killed by swans” and “that book filled with water… modeling mercury for mythology…” What power swirls beneath the veil, lacking in common values as a virtue more tangible than fear. Life is invisible shuddering, the walk of ghosts in love with anxiety. “You and I, trellised with fire, we are the intermittent throwing, from every direction. The flaw of conceivable discourse…”


    The quarry in the medium, dusting in space. Hybrid anatomy, illustrious condor of the fountain, enabling a medieval ruby in a cloned alchemy of missing endgames, a slowly burning celluloid, a coupling statuesque. Her nighttime conjurations compel a madly repeatable “Who goes there?” of sunlight lymphing through the streets, in vessels propelled by girlish figures and sinister pacts. Insight of the plateau charming itself through your presence, your stealthy science of immaculate conjectures. Always forbidding, that heavy insensitively wrapped stone of transparency. The analogy of your name is intoxicating. The glow of footprints in a dream.

   The venom of a tender exchange, between the body and the water, a stranger who pauses, to inhale the larval attitudes (striking to pause, stranger than light… If you choose to avoid the fable, the rash of silence concerning what is untranslatable…) while fondling the antlers over a mirror dropped, a reflection submerged in the babble of primitive wonder. A question of language speaking through the nearness of points meeting, smashing vision, feeding worlds of colliding arousals. The moment is not in time, in tune with duration.

    “I have urged the elements into alignment, bridled by soft light under your skin, from years away. I am thrashing the harp of an unrepeatable discord, the weight of a humming bell, your night ajar… Is it certain you simply cannot expect yourself between those extremes, to incinerate? To flesh the dog days of luminosity, gasping the sheer vertical? Incognito? Posing for oracles and saturated with pleasure?” And the table is turned, raped of seasons, the passage lights up a pyramid, impulses of the undenounced…


     The misshapen wheelbarrow of adolescent schemes overcomes the ceremony of ritual. She is the “Lamerme el coño” of the “vast pluming” and “this too shall honor the prime substance” indicating the closeness of silence as species, naked, crawling, the indigenous scent of closed eyes. The dying and the waking, the nameless and unseen, the chrysalis and the flow. She comes to you with ghostly intentions, with each ache of your physical presence… exposing you to your absence. She rides the tusk, the rapacious indignation of spreading vials.  Everything lives to be forgotten. In one form or another, a heavily guarded gesture, a secret act…  

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