amala somnographia 1:
I want to do what you want to do
a circumstantial collaboration
5th iteration
by
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.
Tens
ion
exc
ises new eye
s at the cro
ssroads. Lean in,
whispering blades.
(SUPINE OUT OF
DOORS)
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. H
im.
Rapture i
s
preceded by rupture: None but you in the street. As fish swim through bamboo,
it isnÕt
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.
OR DOORS AND MORE
DOORS TO VERTIGOSKIP A SKETCHBOOK AND.
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
thereÕs just
this precious malady
of twin machines)
Knkyes
Cor
ore. –tic
ores
yysses
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.
ÒZz.Ó
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 itÕs 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 itÕs the performances
going on in it. Exstasis. Such untenable balance is
rapidly lost
through a door.
ThereÕre
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
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
UNANSWERABLE
Unanswerable
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.
Impercept
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
away
ghosts.
That's
history.
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
thresher
becoming. Exstasis.
Be the stampede on two feet, bow your
head to summon the whispering blades.
How you can lose
what YOU CAN NEVR HVE: Its
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