Velvet Pockets, Flower Grave

I’d gladly leave the lights of the city

for the sounds of these nights

Still learning, but for this one thing,

I’ve seen enough

Knife to the chest, ears to the ground,

can you hear it, too?

I’m not always here, but I’d still make a space and clear her way

Do you know the value of a life?

Its beautiful blue horizons smothered

in deep velvet pockets, my neat assembly

of her counterfeit smiles

I’d abandon her;

beautiful safe creation,

offer her being to the next moon

For the entire distance that light travels,

I’d throw her soul,

bown marrow on fire,

dance with mercy and silence

on her full-blooded flower grave

Blinded by less than a light-year, she’d soon

be weightless,

do you know?

For the sounds of these nights,

I’d transport her between countries

and lines

Through tides and winds it takes time

and no time at all to be wise

I’ve seen enough, been put to the test,

these nights, I promise,

are all that we have.

The Beige Man, February 8th 2020

It was April of last year, and a sweaty afternoon on the Bakerloo underground line,
my corpus squashed like a marshmallow,
my cerebrum buzzing like a bee.
I have at some point chosen to name this story either ‘The Beige Man’, or ‘Tiny Sunburned Hearts’.
Name it as you please.

On this particular day, my throat was dry as dust, my limbs confused and surrounded by the rest of the city. I could feel a sunburn on my nose and cheeks, which I had somehow managed to get during a month of what they often like to call ‘unexpected weather forecasts’. I had been tucked away in the park all day, sharing pints with a kind middle aged man with a gold tooth (that soon would fall out under a night of unexpected drinking forecasts. At a later time, I need perhaps to write more about this man, as he is not the beige man, but a green.) I was melting, and ready to die. Agreeing with death, I was ready to write my funeral eulogy. I noted something about having your bones broken and turned into mellow mush,
and further,
a note about sitting at the top of creaky wooden stairs with short legs and a swamp brain trying to stay quiet; days behind the gym at primary, smoking a cigarette that tastes like adrenaline and fleeting friendship, kicking stones with the tip of your right sneaker,
and years after,
physically grown like a tree,
mentally stretched like its branches, smothering someone with that same apathetic neglect. I had it on the tip of my tongue, these hurricane days, impatiently leaving it all behind, but I was interrupted by the automated sound of the speaker.

Announced by an irrationally optimistic female voice, were the words,
(remembered in this order),
–The next station is The Gates of Hell,
change here for The Gates of Hell.
Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.
I have later found out that on Central, Victoria, and Bakerloo lines this voice belongs to Emma Clarke, who is around 50 years old. She probably has cats, one surely named Victoria. Or maybe she went as far as Bakerloo. Fat Bakerloo. She repeats, (now remembered like this),
–Mind the gap and leave your heart, the next person will surely take better care. Exit the train, we are ready to depart.

The beige man with the beige clothes and a beige face who sits next to me rolls and tucks away a newspaper on the inside of his arm, saves it there like a secret he will never open. He stands up, minds the gap loyally on his way out, legs like long ropes. Maybe he hid away his heart inside a story about some sad local news, ‘Two men robbed in Piccadilly, perpetrator not yet found’, did not want to leave it on the seat as Emma had commanded. I follow close behind, and mind the gap, too. I wonder what is inside the gap, perhaps miniature versions of us, a tiny tube filled with tiny people, tiny feet minding tiny gaps, carrying tiny newspapers, leaving the train at a tiny gate of hell.
–Leave your heart. Leave your heart.
We are ready to depart.

The beige man and I are now on an investigation together. He clearly does not know, has no clue at all, although I firmly believe he would appreaciate my unoffical business. His shoe heels clicks methodically as he heads towards the elevating stairs. Quietly, we stand staring forward, upwards, like robots in temporary unison. The man pulls out his underworld travel card from an extremely beige pocket. I had not noticed it was there. Mine is already set in my hand (unfortunately, some would say, I am always prepared.) The man beeps his card on the overworld machine, and disappears into the busy crowd. I retract back into the underworld without beeping mine. Before he left, I saw him throw away his newspaper.

–Leave your heart.
Leave your heart.

Solo Show CLOUDLAND at Galleri kyo: Prints for sale

My first solo exhibition, CLOUDLAND, is currently showcased at galleri kyo in Copenhagen. The photographs displayed are for sale (only one print of each). There is also 10 other images available for print and sale on request, which was showcased on an image projector screen. Please e-mail me for a full list of titled photographs. If you wish, you can also agree upon a private viewing at the gallery. Maria Preisler can be contacted further for sizes, prices, and practical information. Details about opening times are available at www.gallerikyo.dk / @gallerikyo.

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Notes on the ocean: Sea Human

I’ve been looking through my photo archives from some years back, and I notice that the sea is a reccuring fixation. It makes me feel both in awe and at ease. I want to penetrate its surface and dematerialize, but also shut my eyes, imagine its absence. Some of my most cosmic junctures has transpired with salt prickling on my skin, stinging my orbs, pulling me back and forth, up and down. Once, I lost my favourite sun glasses to the sea while swallowing the force, almost drowned, came up transparent. I’ve listened: a silent bystander, dived in both warm, cold, alive, blind—embraced, imitated, dominated, seducted. Once, by the sea in Eastbourne, I encountered a cold rainy storm and angry waves (along with an angry woman down at the pier, who probably did not want to be documented by an obsessive stranger with a flash snapshot camera.) I normally like to leave people to themselves. At the same time, I have a tendency to take the shape, or likeness of a detective. Evidence of life need to be witnessed, collected, formed, perhaps sometimes even understood, or solved. However, I have still not been able to fully grasp the role of the sea, nor the human, especially the two of them side by side.

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