A recitative banquet based on materials issued on "nabanassar" website from november 2002 to june 2003; all rights reserved to the authors. Abridgment by Giuseppe Cornacchia and Angelo Rendo, binding by Chiara Nifosì and Michele Maino. Paper edition by Ass Cult Press, Pistoia, Italy, july 2003.

Tradition: it could be not or not feel the call – the ground is grey, is white – or maybe it can. Never mind. To hold somebody, some people, ranged; to make them train, distinguish, separate, freeze.

Magpie: you feed on your own life

Drone-eater: i do not get in touch

Magpie: you don’t put your self on the market

Drone-eater: Might is no adhesion, i feel that… it’s a matter of abyss

Magpie: you’re dead

Drone-eater: time pierces us

Magpie: i think it’s right

Drone-eater: we are sowing, aren’t we?

Magpie: clear-headedness is the condition of still people

Drone-eater: an ominous assertive tone that doesn’t touch me

Magpie: while building the opus, we are in the dark

Drone-eater: let’s shed light!

Magpie: In your opinion, do we discover (shed light) or invent (dig up)?

Drone-eater: we dig out, so shedding light

Magpie: in my opinion we invent

Magpie: there is nothing to discover

Magpie: only create a world, inventing it from nothing

Magpie: construing relations around

Magpie: giving it life

Drone-eater: it’s not matter of seeing ghosts

Drone-eater: it’s the wonder of apparitions

Drone-eater: it’s the "lenghty" perception

Drone-eater: it’s the air

Drone-eater: it’s the skin

Drone-eater: it’s wonderful a ghostly statute

Magpie: in short, you changed into a literary character

Drone-eater: so you say my ghostly statute is a network attempt?

Magpie: in conclusion, what will you do?

Drone-eater: the tart

Magpie: rex

Drone-eater: call yourself joe rex

Magpie: a tric-trac

Drone-eater: however, i’ll break something

Drone-eater: i’ll cause damage

Magpie: and so kill the poetry they are telling us since five thousands years

Drone-eater: to kill all the goals and halves

Drone-eater: the fascists of poetry!

Drone-eater: is that nirvana !!!??

Drone-eater: dear me

Tradition: the past reconfirmations pass through the clearance, knots become larger, undergo change, alter, rekindle, are put actions or not aligned masses, balls of wool blown by an internal wind, nearly like a point to fix, then close, without anything passing through

Giuseppe: say, say with no fear

Angelo: the destruens part you notice is the construens one

Martino: i’d prefer to issue more artistic stuff, critic…

Giuseppe: Go on, Martino

Martino: the thing that guarantees poetry to prevail over other interests or skills (publishing, promotional, personal…) is its great circulation among us. All of that. Its selection must be common, not deputed to a manager who publishes Ciripò because of Berlusconi’s will. Today Ciripò, tomorrow Don Gonzalo Pirobutirro

Martino: We (in general, not us) must bow to few names, because somebody else chose them for us. We must acknowledge that Santi is good, Lombardo is good, Raimondi is good…

Martino: we are nearly obliged to do it. But who put them there?

Martino: they’re our fetich… they symbolize us, we willingly or not.

Martino: That because there is no poetic selection (even if they are really good), but another one. Then the alternative is (in my opinion):

Martino: to let poems circulate, and texts, and personalities, to force to plain confrontation the words of one with the words of the other… so that the voice of one is really the voice of many

Martino: so that no manager can say: "publish Dal Bianco in "Specchio" series!"

Martino: because before Dal Bianco, in "Specchio" must be issued Ceni

Giuseppe: How do you think we shoul behave?

Martino: Poetry must emerge by poetry confrontation…

Giuseppe: in my opinion we should not worry any more about what to read

Martino: but as for our generation the race is pitched… don’t let it be heteronim

Angelo: but why worrying about forty-year-old men? We are in boost. Do we want to come to their same bad end? It’s not possible running with the here and hunting with the hounds

Giuseppe: Martino says: better one step by twenty people than twenty steps by one only person, isn’t it?

Giuseppe: can i tell what i think?

Martino: sure

Giuseppe: can i ?

Angelo: go, crow

Giuseppe: i’m going

Martino: go

Giuseppe: in my opinion we all are individualities and each must follow its own trajectory at the greatest obstinacy; it’s necessary that one-hundred people take one-hundred steps along their path, in order to have one-hundred new paths; on the contrary, if one-hundred people take one common step, nothing would be achieved and it isn’t worth while

Giuseppe: the beauty will be looking the arrows of who takes one-hundred / fifty / twenty steps but everybody would have given all of his soul (unlike the way of behaving and living nowadays)

Giuseppe: and everyone will be conscious he can’t have a grudge

Giuseppe: if he is free

Giuseppe: to develop himself at his best

Giuseppe: the end

Angelo: radical, cheering !!

Angelo: The tones have to be high, we must agree upon that

Martino: tender and pitiless, not tough and pitiless

Angelo: it’s a matter of trails

Giuseppe: Martino tells there is no love

Angelo: there is no love in us?

Martino: naa, don’t radicalize my words, i am being the devil’s advocate, i’m trying to be in and out at the same time

Giuseppe: i consider it a relay

Martino: in what sense, Gius?

Giuseppe: i consider our website a bulletin more than a portal

Giuseppe: professional

Pasolvino: Finally i climbed mansard: / i saw the green and brown bottles. / the wooden boards, the bunch of papers. / I write my initial on the glass: / a beatiful S; blow the dust off / my finger; all is aged: not stale / but usual: i know these spiderwebs / and bounce upon as on an elastic / carpet, i’d like to break something / but am tired and hungry: / i open the cupboard with my heart in throat / but the jar of jam / is full of gum stoppers / and i knew. / I’d like a detail to distinguish / between this and one year ago visit: / where is the mouse? The trap / has not gone off yet. / Is this mansard the trap / the mouse laid to me?

Tradition: Stitches hurt when taken away. Stitches are big, boundless, they don’t want to listen to reason. They are right, they troop, tickle, suppurate.

Angelo: i need to set out, i can’t wait that "something" happens; we know the wait, by now. Sooner, there is no motion of thought, nobody "invests" nor invests himself. I can’t see the nylon thread –it cuts!- as Giuseppe says

Hormiguero ugoloso: it could be a conceptual work by Paolini, a grill with words inside. In conclusion, it seems an image representing poetry, not a halo-destined verse maker.

Angelo: hormiguero ugoloso, i’d never wound the philological belvedere!

Hormiguero ugoloso: but don’t you think that a visionary image had a value even without being understood? After all he says that things have extraordinary resemblance and that it’s worth the trouble crediting imagination. I still like Canti of Maldoror.

Logos in Fabula: by the way, i’d not lieave out the immense Dino Campana or the burning metaphysics of Rebora. "Destined Halo" is however a nonsense, meaning that the poet, like every human being, undergoes events; sure, the best among them can evoke events, invoke, transform, mould events by the same many-sided i talked about before. But the destined halo no, please, let’s leave it to astrologers and soothsayers.

Aladar: the "poetry of things" of Lombards transfered the level but, seeing well, either Raboni or Cucchi are working now on Beckett, destined halo not promethean but annihilated. So as not to cite De Angelis, who is close at hand by his own really appreciated way.

Eulogy of Excess: i come back to the burn and its not tansferable issuing, to the quiet submission of transferable paradigm of thing to pick with. The question is: how do we Occidentals reason? A more appropriate question would be: why do we telle these things in West? I come back to halo flaring up, like in perceptive solstice, beyond notions. I come back to the burn of beginning. Let’s come back slowly to the burn. If you are writers i mean: what does remain to us? I’d say all. Here comes the destined halo. The initiation wound, that pain (or maybe i should say that joy) which a long ago, during originary infancies, in undefined hours (maybe at noon) had to come (it seems i’m writing a minimanual of poetics and this time i must surrend to exorbitant evidence). The destined halo is just what illogically is. I’d say irrationally is. What is impossible to mistake. What, like death, crime, violence, blood, passion, not tansferable love, mystic experience, is "proper". Don’t add words, don’t say that we are into echo. Here, on the contrary, in the burning of oils, of petroleum by Pluto’s dives or Uranus’ erections we are in "halo". It’s unnecessary to add that you have it or not: "halo" is, burns up, is "proper" or you are elsewhere.

Hormiguero ugoloso: listening to Eulogy, until it was possible before falling asleep, i feel like remarking that you are very distant from life, you are on Neptune masturbating each other.

Logos in Fabula: why poet should pursue a destined halo? If this is the situation, paraphrasing a famous maxim: "self-reference or death"!

Angelo: destined halo exists. It’s the peace, the "legend". It’s not argumentanting fucking-up, it’s foodstuff of barbarian (critic!!).

;-P: but how does this halo works? Like Jedi’s power?

Luminamenti: i see coming a beginning (just enough) of brawl around destined halo. Maybe the heat, maybe the month melt a little the will of fight. In different periods of year maybe there would have been a grater flowing of blood. Why am i saying this? Is it accidental? Yes it is, really, meaning that this is the first foolish thought arising by the end of my fingers, but it’s the fate itself showing by these words something relevant about destined halo matter. (The beginner says): "Be born in the Holy Order (brahman) the consecrated (brahamana) full of destined halo (brahmavarcasa)". So (saying) he gives consecrated the destined halo, from which (pure at first) the consecrated was born to be winded by destined halo". (Shataptha Bhrmama 13.1.9.1). Aura is translated to Sanskrit by sri (lustre, splendour, glory, beauty, wellness, majesty, luck). Sri comes from sra, to heat, to cause to sweat: by superhuman concentration, by inflexible attention, by inner heat (tapas) kindling and making things shine, halo arises and they all irradiate Lakshimi: Incanto, born by sea-foam, and Sarasvati, the Word. Shatapata Brahmana explains that sri is analogous to the pacificatory night, to the enclosure that protects rite, to the bones, to the strenght of body. Like skeleton to body and holy enclosure to ritual act, so halo to soul. Sri is Majesty, Fortune, the celestial spouse of the king.