amala somnographia 0: early draft. finish version found in Drunken Boat. 

I want to do what you want to do

a circumstantial collaboration

5th iteration


Marco Maisto – Caroline B. Devane

New York – Cambridge

May, 2012

Team exercises in the calamity arcades. Torsion in oh-shun.

Easy grace by hands, by all means, maiden. A seam, hairline, breaks with blessing, kissing.


ion exc

ises new eye

s at the cro

ssroads. Lean in,

whispering blades.


Mala. Amala. Flower garland choke

hold. Soft petal thigh stroke.

Helicopter bud abrasion shower. Deep bathwater hurl and maddening erection pedal.

Skook. Chug. Soft subversion at 4 o’clock seaside. Poor you pelican; slapshot Polaroids from hollyfuck.

Wooden bell wake-up thump.

Eee. Zzz. Blessed fracture.

Kisses of your elbow.

This bell rings in you ends all time teems with worlds. Teems in you. With worlds you hold in her. So I. Him.

Rapture is preceded by rupture: None but you in the street. As fish swim through bamboo, it isn’t fair to be a ghost, yet.

Ink of ten thousand bulls. Years in which you are missed from the beginning.

Splinter corsage for roses and Boom.

Sandpaper heart attack.

I emailed you a picture last. 33 of x.


hand rising from those waves.

‘my hand rarely but fully synthetic

on your face; I’m sleeping in.’

hand sinking after a wave up to

elbow; arm with a hand sinking

to touch the skein to wave

‘1,000 happy goodbyes.’

500 handshakes. My calves in

my halves in- all these wasted pieces.

From those rising waves

I’m reaching in

1 of 100 analytic nonorganic subsumations of a once and former glory

Beneath the waves, salt in hand

(For today, there is no deciding for today for today only there’s just

this precious malady of twin machines)



ore. –tic



Fixed and orderly broken open or just broken

Tensions court on high; deadly, one mustn’t miss robed angels

Draping garlands around your neck,

Intermingling eyebrows

Summoning spells. Epistolary epistemology. Minute correspondences.


Fatal brow sweat on a fatal synthesis

Intercourse on the tennis court; or hi, I miss you normal

If I had half the vim I do in your imagination I would, well.

Hand rhymes. Massive haecceities. Huge coincidences.

I have always wanted to

write about a definitive room;

a room in which there is a story about rooms that tells about doors.

You’d read it from this book, picking it up from placed on the green cardamom stasis table; you’d hold the book and balance the frame technique you’ve learned to call ‘attention’

between the smoothness of lifting it and the excite of performing an action in a room that was moments ago an empty slate, now and rapidly being populated by the ornaments of your know-how now know how it got there.

One: a door leading to an unknown room known made know

able only by the virtues of its door, which it praises by telling the story of itself in a book because its partner cannot speak a story as it’s too busy being that story.

Rooms of books. Hi. A hi-liter is an instant forgetter. Highlite me. Photograph me on typing paper, tie me to the mom ument and let me tell you about moving and Thursday bench placement. I have always wanted to know a pure place aside from it’s the performances going on in it. Exstasis. Such untenable balance is

rapidly lost

through a door.

There’re doors I am always desiring to stand in because we can meet on such a thresholds and just tell stories. On every street I walk through there are hundreds of doors I would give anything to burst through. How it came to be. How the aviary of your dome. How the dog of your torso. The alacrity by which one comes to unlimited space. Put a title on your day, title it the end of limits.

To smooth down the splinters on the table in this room find two pieces of pressed board, create a hinge, form a cavity. Into this well pour curative oils. Lavender. Linseed. Oil of Angelica root. Balsam and

bergamot. They soak through into the table so it can withstand a hand’s rubbing over it 1000 goodbyes.


Unanswered raft One

A story can only be told in the room if it is the subject and the frame for a story about the speechless frame by which the story to be written may be inaugurated into being. A door and its room are a black box in an empty parking lot



Augury can enter a room through the hearth, a frame for speech;

synchronic, the ghosts rush in to dry their coats on your torso.

Who has entered and left the room, Theriomorph? Don’t stay too long in

the field riding to hounds: the fox is unfindable, frozen, locked away

in a black box imperceptible from this room.


ible at the hearth,

A final vision

woven from luminal states

N Amala

in augur ated

Tz, Ta.

An arc plots

your inversion

and submersion into \ this bamboo forest of doors. Pure, unaccented gestures in this empire

of cold&hot.

Your empire teems

with open doors

and I cry into

the cabinets

to scare





Welcome the garlanded bulls, fully synthetic of gods at the hearth

of your mouth. Spit sacrificial knives

and twist the rope

around this

neck: the


becoming. Exstasis.

Be the stampede on two feet, bow your head to summon the whispering blades.

How you can lose


neverhappening is happening now.

Disappearing birds, jocund

mur mu ration.

Wrap it hand it hang it up in the inscritable momens it of our trancing

it it it it it it it it it s it it it it it it it it it

sings sings is sits signst sigs

sins sings sinst

byallmeans correspond