Posts Tagged ‘Tyler Flynn Dorholt’

Monster: a Glottochronology

March 17, 2009 Comments off

Dear River,

I imagine you apologize for the fish.
My wooden stomach: hook the fins as want stiffens.
I hear the mud tremble & back up slow unto.

This side of the moon can only offer one course. Did anyone truly give the idea it was made of cheese a chance? Pause. Maybe we should organize ourselves around such beliefs again, give us a sense nature is still mysterious beyond the flashbulbs, let us crack a bit stepping into the river. Let me run my finger over those rocks. I’ll split it with you. You’ve grown another seed in your window & you expect the best. Fine. It is here I put my foot down. What hope do you have of relocating the sun? For a moment, try feeding your bones, bones. Let’s take the foot out for a spin. It was just down the way they planted all those trees, wouldn’t it be nice to see. At the heart of great exposures, something minute tarrying film. Carry that around in your head. I give other oil. In our glottal dreams, we always arrive the fine substance. This glass is tricky. Flush in a pinch around the edges. Take the mongrel out. Hope a call comes. I think I’ve heard that one in an instant. Better backtrack & jackal norms will appear, absolving us of this rush for something keening. I remember lying in the sail.

Dear Bridge,

I imagine your thoughts about the moon being on.
My bones fed: the astral oils are changed as trees sleep.
I fondle like a plant the new airs with my scent.

And how is it that you want us to call at this as home? Only seminal apertures, or making your kiss. The top five most emotional albums of your life hint at some religion & stake at yacht forebodings. Not necessarily owning real property are we? Your toes in your fingers, would you consider a grounding, or in getting to carry patterns over-warm the one skin? How uncomfortable is this theatre? — & you wanted to call in early for the other seat: piffle. Here I hear most about saying something over the streams — it is that rock just out of focus that I sat on naked & made geyser. There could have been other consumptions, but you tent-ended viscosity. Laundry in the middle of the night, cleaning up the rugs they footed while mouth-washing: penultimate. Secondly, when has the shade drawn down on lust? Hand of God gnaws on dog-leg, seeks out the filaments of rue. At the unmoving patch in the marina, blessings waver, blessings splash, and I feel cowgirls with binoculars upon this, I feel rearrival in the strongest stage of snow set on by sun, its salvaging, its sniff, my chance, your sign, is raring to go & get back to fitting in.

* * *

Dear River,

I am returning these pebbles for the uprise.
My going through: a small line fixates on current.
I am a good look for passing planes & sculptures.

The torpors loomed, to recount the spread of the maladroit check off the shoe lather, laces unhinged: occlude the incursion of the decrepitude charmer; oft & bungled the coin purse. Our dearth is to heft because baseborn we traverse the aftertaste of phone calls with lady-lady. Because I offer fins I’m ichthyic? I am fully-grown & functioning, use one belt for the holler, & strove once to bundle me shingles. It took the dukes & a farming crowd: they left in unexpected hook: scale. The secret I’ve been keeping for years is out: jet out the jug & lo & be & hold for you’re a mover: wed: you roof the boom, foam up the vase & stem out toward diligence. They offer such settlement it stirs> I will offer my ex composure< in the snap I didn’t perfect there sits hindrance, from other depths, at its best: thumb: in the earliest embryo I moon-hung atop the solar asymmetries of the stomach: rumbled: knew not the intestinal focus as it stood with facts. Since the recourse, we’ve gone off exchange. I want to tell why two bananas: you ought to keep it all as useful as suspenders. Too heavy for the table, the child decries its biscuit as drop-giggle—off the calcification: pacifier, you hold unheard sins, palm little lungs. There are too many cold cuts out in the other room, let’s pass pastries & be again the baby. We are bottled in the waxing of the moon.

Dear Bridge,

I suspend a frame for the over then nethers.
My weaning: the absence of our good old ducky.
I scent the ascent & take you manually.

Another magnetized thread takes its place though none of us were around to count the striations. We view the pile of colorful glasses, they will all have merged & we say just what it means to be connected. Yes, I know, of course. Flambeaux, resistance to implicitness, epistemic like crystals, caissons, stung by myths of powder like a spike through a clock — whoosh — only a moment ago misled, a candidate, now you flounder in someone else’s subjective account of the history that interpolates you. I would guess you have not used the same pitcher for reconstitute of milk as for fresh. We line up on the coast & skip stones together across the ocean surface. Smoke billows up from strategic points within the walls of the city. Tintinnabulations deliver one back, bedizened, transmittance only the essential architecture. Patch up speaking in tongues with thick mouth vapor. The sun fickles its heat, actually & persuades another direction for melt & to live out one’s life on the borders of a very thin puddle. New understandings in the voice, in whichever inch it happens. Ribs reveal themselves to be hives digesting lives from a twentieth century horror. A robin goes missing in the field. We trample the summit of the question. We pound the stone. We, everyone crossing the bridge, & shallow sand at the feet. A children to be herd, like a plug, like two pockets return a ghost blank. Similar to the patterns within any place of worship where we find a neutral heart. Cairn, shrugging danger, the dead end for the thoughtless, the try, this whole hovering sidewalk from which plants seek the proper food & the murderer drinks juice. Children are locked-in with their mothers, breaths clipped. Chop of the stalk of celery length-wise. This one will help this other one.

by Thomas Cook and Tyler Flynn Dorholt

Download the MP3 (9.15MB, recorded via conference call)

Process notes

A Glottochronology began as a experiment in generative text and is now many divergent experiments that always prove to converge. It has been undertaken almost exclusively through email correspondence over the last 15 months. It all began with this sentence: The state shrunken: if we remove the encasements: which fountain are we at? The project began to metastasize rapidly, gaining speed while the two poets watched short surrealist films together over the phone, incorporating rules applicable to the Oulipo school. One of the projects, swallowed by what the writer’s refer to as The Monster, is a book of 125 poems that use all the words in the encyclopedia that begin with the letters g and l. Quite often, the collaboration was done in the same room, in which Thomas and Tyler passed sheets of paper back and forth for long periods of time while Jan Svankmajer films played on the wall. Not a single word or particle has been edited or tinkered with from the original creations. The collaboration has a lifetime roll to it and maintains weekly, if not daily correspondences.

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