Picpoetry: unedited mobile photography and rapidly, almost automatic unedited poetic prose writing, ideally on the spot in order to capture the atmospherics of the specific time and space. I upload all my picpoetry on Instagram under the name picpoet – one of the oldest poets of Instagram combining visual and poetic prose. Picpoetry is a method I invented in 2009 in order to explore an ontology of presence without falling into the standard trappings of visual and textual phenomenology. There have been two waves of picpoetry. The first one, with about 600 picpoems, ended in July 2013 were all except for the very last picpoem were ceremoniously deleted for picpoet’s suicide. The second one, since 2014 and still ongoing, counts more than 1000 picpoems and can be found below and on Instagram.

That time when the wind blew without upsetting a single hair on his perfect head and the city turned like a well pasted lipstick in the tube of eternal joy.
That smoothness that took care of my whole life, one with everything else, my skin sleek slalom across my and other bodies. That smoothness that left me no identity. That angular smoothness. That’s all gone when he slid his hand on my face  and then the air. And in between, he stopped.
Your secret is not safe with me. Yes, it’ll only stay in the box, where our hands touched when the lights were still on, and the fans were fluttering like bats ready to drink. But, look, the box is open and the world is crowding.
The other side of the spectacle
That dance, slow and masked, we see connections, but connections ignore us. We ride our doubles, mirrors or smoke, but our doubles fade. Don’t forget to count, he said, foot already placed in the future. 
Pic by @p.s.fiorenza
Fruits of Venice
Artist hard at work. Artist upside down. Artist random shot. Artist not artist. Artist inevitably. Artist slumbrous. Artist afternoon. Artist get up already.
Venice Pantone. Pick up the colour of the city of your dreams. Add time and salt that will destroy it in a year or so. Add hands that will touch it, feet that will step on it and eyes that will devour it. Add yourself in a night walk, light summer drizzle and rising humidity. Add a mad desire to live forever. You’ve got your Pantone city.
The future of a promise - that they will live and they will die and they will pray and they will eat - is a promise itself, wrapped in soft white lace of the type that carries forever the stains made from the melted wax.
This will fill with water.
The water always comes from below. 
Sinking City XXII, oil and gold metallic spray on canvas, 100x50x3.50, 2021 (in progress)
There was a night that came visiting the day. They had tea and vodka together, they learned how to have sex while sleeping and cook breakfast while dreaming. I keep a piece of night in every one of my afternoons.
The flower’s ray, the planet’s debris, the edge of your nose, all inclined, soft as tomorrow’s breeze, ready to be touched by me, the plucker, the sleeper, the glass-blower.
Free the diagonal. Become the ladder.
The lines rolled out across the roofs, down from windows and verandas, up in antennas and sidereal bird flights. The text finally became the city.
The vegetal that we are. The water that we are. The gold that we are. .
Oil and gold chrome on canvas, 50x70cm, 2021
Single bell / background voices / two swallows vanishing in / three clappings : the order of a happiness
Sliding between high and below.
Le bas oneirique, nageant en or et mort verte, pas de haut, juste plus bas.
Yeah ok I’ll press it.
Give her a minute. Just to finish her text. And she’ll jump right in. You just keep it open and deep for her. And she’ll swim in the light like a swan.
Of a wall, of a master, of a tool, of a bounce, of an offering, of a way out, of a hole back in, of demolitions and armours. (Notes on acts of domestic vandalism)
Slashing Waters - a performance on waters, law and wavewriting, online, double camera, twin sound channel, video, acetate, ink, water (video to come on andreaspm.com )
And our distance became water
You’ve always seen me, even when I couldn’t. You’ve never lost me, even though I never found me. You’re always you. I am you only sometimes.
Double bind blind doubling up and yet you’ve managed to come out for that picnic.
Memento mori
Tell me
Everyone bleeds. The air was stale with humidity. He opened the door and walked back in. He wished the gaps weren’t that wide so that he could shut the world out. But the world kept on bleeding in through the air.
For you I turned my days into a stage, joy hidden under every teacup, sadness like dust on every tabletop. But the nights, I drew the curtains shut.
Walking mid-water, ocean deep corridors of strutting backspines, pebble by pebble we make our houses, cracking always in that middle of dark water seashell breath.
Hidden your hand holding a heated afternoon sun, keep it tight in, and when the evening becomes your companion, because it will, then remember to place it somewhere on your face, an electric smile fading or a memory of an adolescent thunder.
No one is ever really fooled, no one really believes it, yet we all, long lines of unbelievers, turn up for heaven and turn down for whatever is left.
You have never been here. Here has never been. Here is, chasing across the chess board the black becomes the other queen, here is, the white becomes the cliff of the game, here is, elsewhere.
There is no outside. Etc. 
Sinking City XV, 2021, oil and gold metal paint on canvas, 100x100 (detail, in progress)
Even that stepladder led deeper into water.
For your moment of glory, a pile of air made of fire that has not yet been lit. You will fly darling, across the lanes of a sky, rolls of clouds underneath your round fluffy wheels.
She really thought that the glass would stop the waves. Not ordinary waves. Flat slow breathless waves of a city under a blue sun. Concrete and ondoyant, surfaces of her morning routine. She had trust in the glass, although the other day she saw a crack starting at the bottom.
I swam through the window into the living room, past the armchair where you used to sit and wait for me. There was a nest of waves, round morning song, already looking out, impatient to surface. 
Sinking City XVI, Oil and gold metal paint on canvas, 19x19cm, 2021
When the jungle moved onto the other side of your eye, and your home emptied out and filled up, and your voice what happened to your voice? a wave a rasp a round, that then unblocked the view.
That untrammelled world, that unridged sky, our narrow is becoming even narrower. And I need to turn smaller. Oil and gold metal paint on small random canvases, in progress.
*Sound ON* and I made music and placed it on a thought and let it float on the big river under the city and hope it reached you
You gave me your blue and i made it a square, you gave me your summer and I made it yesterday’s afternoon, you gave me steps to reach you and I was afraid I would slip.
I took your waters and made them paint, I took your waves and made them windows, I took your seabed and made it welcome.
I judge a book by its cover.
The walk opened and the earth came through and your eyes looked at me from the pavement.
*sound on* 
the Unbuilding of Venice
The three birds that never stopped singing even when they had to eat, mouths filled with necessity, the three cages that never opened even when everything else was opening, space filled with time, the three waters that never stopped reflecting even when only the riverbed was left on the sky, time filled with flow.
This Friday 18:00 GMT on zoom
Link on bio

Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos The Space That You Are, performance lecture – participatory workshop, 45 min

Αυτή την Παρασκευή 26 Μαρτίου στις 20.00, ως μέρος του Performance now v.8: Where are we now? στο Πανεπιστήμιο Δυτικής Μακεδονίας, θα πραγματοποιηθεί το εργαστήριο - περφόρμανς διάλεξη The Space That You Are από τον Ανδρέα Φιλιππόπουλο-Μιχαλόπουλο σε συνομιλία με τον Μάριο Χατζηπροκοπίου, μέσω του συνδέσμου https://zoom.us/my/uowm.eetf5 (Meeting ID: 697-897-7851).
Οι συμετέχοντες/συμμετέχουσες θα χρειαστεί να έχουν την κάμερα τους ανοικτή. Καθώς πρόκειται για εργαστήριο, δεν θα μπορούμε να δεχθούμε άτομα μετά το πρώτο δεκάλεπτο.

Friday 26 March, 18:00 GMT

Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos The Space That You Are, performance lecture – participatory workshop, 45 min
In conversation with Marios Chatziprokopiou, writer and performer.

https://zoom.us/my/uowm.eetf5 (Meeting ID: 697-897-7851).

A performance lecture that is ruptured by actions on and off screen, The Space That You Are begins with the idea that a body is space, and that in being space, a body determines the way that the space assembles itself, moves and pauses, and regenerates and erases itself.
Through a lecture on the connection between norms and space, starting with the lawscape, moving to atmosphere and then to the concept and practice of spatial justice, the participants will explore the physical and digital spaces of the meeting. Participants will be required to keep their cameras on. Access to the zoom link will be available until 18.10 pm
Thames beach, even there you must carry on trying, the water never withdraws the earth never appears, 1 2 3, pole skipping, avoid earth avoid water, become Venice and fail.
Sometimes the here is already elsewhere
He remembered the first time he woke up in the middle of the night, that B&B was perfect, the day was perfect, the love he felt was perfect. But the night opened up like a flowery duvet with its seams all torn up. From then on, waiting became a vigil by the night lake.
All our words we hang on the daylight, it’s slippery, always slanted, nothing stays put for long, but yes this nothing falls into our arms if we wait at the right end of the diagonal.
Mother presence, she wanted you to float away, on the wing of her blowing embraces, those flying kiss kiss that always ended up landing softly on your cheek.
On the day we didn’t meet, the sky poured its gold into the pond. I don’t think you knew what to do with it, so you just let the garden drink from it.
Starfish memory spreading like an umbrella on the skybed, you are all connected, a voice booms before the call ends.
The light, the studio, the surface, the waiting, the drying, the piling, the dust, the odour, the water inside all curves and valleys.
Of that time, when water was without waves, no memory. Just bottles that sucked it all in, smooth heavy liquid of an untarnished sometime.
Evening. And the inside spills out, frenzied glacier that paralyses the city. Evening. And the outside licks the glazing off our windows.
The memory of your shade, white this time, no longer pure, not yours, white till the end of white, it always comes.
Tessellated planet, its surface cracked by gravity, so how did we fail to see the steps? Long before human skin was stretched on them to dry, steps were carved, resting places for winds, hunting grounds for plants. Here is the difference now: we have never understood which steps are meant to go up and which to go down. We do both. But the steps don’t.
Your dream, our dream, of perpetual flow, there it ends, here it ends, your feet plunged in the green, waddled through it as if it were another country, mirrors!, you exclaimed, mirrors everywhere! but no, no mirrors, just frames that square up the end.
We are ready to fall. The light, cradle of square tenderness, will catch us again.
Acrylic and gold metallic paint on canvas, 91x91cm, 2021 (in progress)
mid-flight she knew, I am more than the sum of my parts, but mid-life she started collecting all her little parts, I am nothing more than my breaths never taken and my trips never completed
from deep within our shoulders, the wings we gave our lives for, rose and folded around us, flooded us, filled our mouths with sorrow 
Sinking City X, Sinking City series, Acrylic and gold metallic paint on canvas, 90x90cm,
Oh my love, this night was never meant for us. It opens up elsewhere, on the dark side of a different planet, waiting for another dawn to kill it. This night is not our night.
@oms_rocha and my collab work is out and can be purchased at super accessible prices. We would love to see them live in new homes. Please check my site andreaspm.com/show/poetry-duality/  and contact me for prices - all proceeds support struggling artists (not me:)
Never a form, never the outside, but flooding whatever there is, here is that flesh, irreducible, ready to leap off into the shapelessness of breath.
Five of me were waiting behind me, a queue on springs shaking with a foretaste of life in their half-open lips, I could rest now, this bed, your body, our past, that late afternoon in that house by the sea, could be relived.
shimmering waterless lake spreading fast across our dreams, flood again flood, but your voice framed it, made it a reservoir of slashes, your voice a dam stopping our dreams from bleeding.
Teach me the ends of your hand, after this syllable, this mute promise of a sentence, never uttered. Seamstress of my full stops.
don’t ignore these round rusty handles, pores of a skin stretched across birth times and death sighs, levers opening to those worlds your body really inhabits now, geographical desires so intense that axes turn the other way while you breathe in the airs of a slow evening
I give you all the halves that I am.
I give you the end of all my lines.
#duality #collab with @oms_rocha
We were waiting for the dawn, our night covers thinned out by the footfall of the ones who no longer waited, but we stayed on, our hands grabbing the horizon as if it would hold us up, our eyes glued to the point, but the point shifted and any light that were to come, came from below.
Rake through my city as if it were your garden, as it were your sky
Stay with me even when the lights are gone
I never got to know you but I’ve always bathed in your circles, we shared that surface where our lives and our screens were contiguous, a common skin wrapped around our uncommon bodies
Three times sliding down, laughing skin on the morning’s shine, and the steel warms up, becomes rosy sky, lake reflecting our breaths
2021 all round, shiny and pink.
Every tree has a right to Xmas! 
Staircase to Nowhere (detail), Oil paint and gold tempera on canvas, 80X20
My nights take place underneath my toes, a slow underwater wave, where your world frays away.
On my birthday, I want to become a garden. Oh wait! :)
Acrylic and Sumi Ink on paper, 76x57cm, collab with @oms_rocha
Steps down, or was it up, every one a day in the life, little flames on my toes remind me how at night the air becomes a womb of light, and we walk. Collab with @sylviebacquet dr extraordinaire takes pix - happy Hanukkah
This line... . .
Collab with @oms_rocha
Wasn’t what you said water? In my ear, what you said, water words whispering water worlds? Water was womb, you said, water was wonder, yes I heard this, water was wave, yes yes, but water was wound? Did you say that? Water was wound?
There was no end in the rooms, corridors of her life, raging tides and lulling lakes sitting down with her every evening at dinner, a light left on by someone, not her, a signal from another life: she felt warm.
Shaft, moat, barrier and then walk out. Fall, Swim, Jump and then walk out. Leave behind, Cleanse, Move on and then walk out. Or Collapse, Drown, Crash. And then you will still walk out.