Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Aline Letterosamyre.

When has the great Mapah looked more beautiful than today? Its body the distant furniture of the future, the fun ritual whose fern-like ruin is titular, rough, frumious, a fine furred onion fit to govern any nit's sense of wit or fate or turning urns whose faces are the burning glory of Mapah! Oviri, we have come to rest in a glade whose lanterns are burning swords of transparent smoke mirrors, whose virtue is conjoined to an endless shedding. Shedu. Shedu. Being whose forehead is branded with an Ess and Heowovu. Mapah's face is a labyrinth of furniture, luminous hovering chairs, onion helmet pillows, beds like soft hollow tentacles we crawl through toward the smell of bathing, the sound of chattering instruments. Oviri, our soft love is the untranslatable myth of living friction, Mapah Shedu Onion Juice Oiviroi like a vast sky amoeba of mercury whose jewelled vacuole is lined in cascading limb musics. Let me lay down in the aqueous film of your central cyclopian corneal orb, and pull your lash flanged lid over my sorry face, a jumble of wires filled with tumbling sequences.. O Oviri, I am conjoined to a cloud of onion jewel furnitures pulsing like a heart whose blood is mirrored snake ferns...