PICPOETRY

We knew when to cross our hands over our chests. We’ve learned it early on, when the august city was sweltering and our mother taught us how to plunge like angels, hands across our chest, in the deep cool cushions of our afternoons.
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Whatever you drop, heavy eyelid or gnarly entrails, you will find when you return to the bay. Sinking City IV, acrylic on canvas, 2020 (detail).
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#picpoetry #poetsofinstagram #painting #waves #paintingwater #water #cranes ...

Our participation at Danielle Arnaud 25 Years Summer Exhibition • @daniellearnaudgallery '25 Years', our summer exhibition, launches online today - link in bio to view! The exhibition was due to open mid-June to celebrate 25 years of the ...

Roundness that sounds like a yes, curvature that sounds like a perhaps, depth that sounds like I know, a grammar of parallel sighs, your crystal that needs to be cracked again and again, till the flesh softness from a different planet, rolls out ...

Now our circles are growing broader, the water flatter, the air greyer. But the first small rounded breath we drew, a winking half circle, water sliding through its openness, now becomes a horizon to retain within.

The body needs things that only gravity can give. Don’t forget the oceans of oxygen lying on the floor beneath.

I will return where I first floated, amongst the lilies of our forgiveness.

I’ve always liked to feel the empty above me. Somewhere to fly to when the wings finally grow. Somewhere to hide when the wings finally fall off. Pic by @loshedinspace

This is the first piece I’ve ever shown publicly in an exhibition. It’s a hole in the belly of the universe and keeps on calling me back. I don’t always find the angel waiting.

We tried to but failed to forget them. They were constantly there when we would take our morning tea overlooking the water. The other us. The ones who lived under the water’s surface, drinking our excreta as if it were their oxygen.

Fight me or love me please, or do both when you see me, and especially when you don’t see me, when you have not seen me for a while, because I need both your breaths to touch my face today and again today.

Sinking City II (detail), Acrylic and gold leaf on canvas, 2020. “Seascape epistemology is movement’s sound, its taste and color, the fluctuation of a process that joins the world together.” Karin Amimoto Ingersoll, Waves of Knowing, 2016

There is always that point, just before the middle of the day, when every thing turns turbulent. He had to learn how to swim again.

"She would fall asleep with a taste of home on her lips."
My video+text contribution to the Journal of Visual Culture @jvcjournal and Harun-Farocki Institut collaboration, invited by the ever inspiring @mancabajec Link ...

Someone left him a note just where he was about to step. He picked it up, read something on it, and turned back out again. These holes in the texture of our living, these invitations to the abyss.

Choose your violence wisely.

#blackoutday2020

There was nothing wrong with the world. He just didn’t have the key.

Just where he sat briefly to put his shoes on, just then he realised that there was no one around him and that the sun ray coming through the window was a reminder of these absences. This didn’t stop him from having his daily chat with them.

Just where his body lied for the night, a train passed screeching as loudly as his dream: they were all sitting down to tea in the train’s restaurant carriage, the world outside hurling past, and he could see his own bedroom, a passing light in the...

Just where he smelled the air of his sleep, a dream that didn’t make it to his night, started quivering like morning light. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he just placed it on his breakfast tray.

Where he spread his body, across passages and boundaries, a chain of rooms mushroomed like a maze, doors and empty spaces crowding his open limbs and soft back, differences in temperature caressing his extremes as if his skin was shedding its own ...

Tonight, Saturday, 18:30 UK time Zoom into a wild session of corona-time talents, part of stay-at-home artist residencies by People's Bureau Eva Sajovic and Rebecca Davies, where I am presenting three moving-poems on questions of home, touch, ...

#Repost @vesper_journal
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••Vesper No. 1 Supervenice••
>The Water Constellations<
By Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos @picpoet .
The surface, heavy with water and waiting, would sometimes gradually boil up...

Just where he placed his hand, a curtain trembled into his reality, an invitation to pull and clear, to reach out and find, to veil and reveal.

Just where he rest his gaze, abstracted after the same breakfast for years now, a newness arose, neither sun nor day, just a molecular composition, fresh and never before, and the water turned visible everywhere around him.

Just where he touched his hand, a doorknob appeared, on a door where no door was, that opened another door, and then another, within that one. His apartment became a folding maze, collapsing deeper into itself with every crossing.

Just where he leaned his back, right there, the space quickened into a pattern of last night’s dream, a city of multiple gravities with water flowers blooming from walls and ceilings.

Just where he ran, corridors of chiaroscuro broke free from his day and started screaming right in his ear, this way! this way!, opposing ways of vein maps running through his legs, pulling him and pushing him till he just had to sit down, immobile, ...

Between the flames, in the volumes of air still and heavy with heat, here he is, a funambulist treading softly, fearing that his body will break any moment now, molecular binding with his future self.

Just where his foot stepped, an afternoon emerged, light and shadow spending their last breaths making room for more nothingness to fill the air.

Just where his mind rested when he was thinking about last night, a fire creeped up, low and whispering, sweet empty futures getting hold of his hair and dragging him down to lines untraced and surfaces uncreased.

Just where he swam, the two waters of his life came together, the morning waters of blue elsewhere and the gold waters of a late afternoon in Venice.

Just where he left his body, his whole body and his whole other body and the one after (my city, he said, has valleys that no one has ever seen, my city is a grave and a cradle for all my bodies, the ones now and the ones after and even the ones that...

Just where his hand gripped, an abandoned square in an abandoned city emerged in the thick of humanity, toil and strife that produced no shadows.

Just where he rested his arm after sanding off the end of his small eternity, just there a glow as sharp as the next morning etched itself.

Just where he sat for a moment, at the edge of a low bed, naked feet on dark wood, the light crawled up and touched his eyelids, last night’s chemical waves smelling of hotel dreams.

Just where he sat seconds ago, a piece of air was left hanging, a voice biting into the wood, a light filled with feathers; I want to stay here, he thought.

Just where his head laid, an island emerged, lit from underneath as if his eyelids were still shut, his sleep still light.

We are dysfunctional families now. Architectural clay, metal, glaze. Series DOTS.

This morning, the final hour left our lives.

But it has always been empty. You just have to look at the other side where things go to rest and the air smells of a softer spring.

The name of the world is missing a syllable. Right in the middle of the word there is a silence that cannot be bridged. Just close your eyes.

Look, they still have hand soap!

Whichever way it turns, the outcome will be the same. And things will be different.

My take on the virus at Critical Legal Thinking: “The ethics of withdrawal before Covid is a show of a planetary collectivity, where we finally understand that our bodies are all connected, and that taking precautions in London will mean that more ...

Do come in. Just don’t press any buttons.

The bubble that carried you before you were you, you are now carrying it always in you. Stay tender, round.

The space opened up with an awareness of violence. Strange, he thought, that we all feel so comfortable. Strange that nothing bleeds from the walls and that the bodies of our fear remain asleep. But then he noticed the room.

Feet rooted in the night sky, head deep in the funghi, her eyes becoming one with the network of intelligence that speaks no english.

She had enough of celebrations. There wasn’t much to do today, so she started weaving her hair in thick waves, adding almond oil for shine, lavender for colour, a few flowers for a spring breeze, then some birds that brought stories and some bees ...

Start counting and end when your face becomes the same again #jaumeplensa #jaumeplensajulia

She said, paint him.

Untitled, DOTING series, architectural clay and glaze

It didn’t happen every evening. Sometimes she had a hunch. Other times, it would take her by surprise. Like last night, when she was thinking of opening the windows and invite that crisp winter dusk to come in and sit opposite her on the table, ...

She put some of the inside out. But that was not enough. So she brought some of the outside in. Again, though, not enough. She kept on moving bits to the other side, the green colour of the water from her aquarium, or that afternoon light just after ...

She started writing when she smelled her first day. Her hand grabbed the air and the ceiling became her sheet of paper. But the paper stayed too still and she had to move onto the ocean, hovering above like a hand of god raining upon its noisy ...

A pact with himself: slowly to walk into the day, slowly to greet the evening, slowly to switch the night light on. But he could still feel the rush passing him by, waves of storms lashing onto his skin like the ageing of a whole planet, right there,...

She woke up with a large concrete box barking on her chest. She had to stay in bed, day after day, hoping that it would go away. But all along she was growing tentacles, molecular extensions of soulful soils slowly worming into the concrete with ...

He spread her body parts, one on every page, one for every reader, her mouth, her thigh, her clit, all there, written with sand and glued with words, softly promising the end of the summer. [picpoet’s performance at #resistancegallery for ...

The surface yawned and the reflections surged up, light and diffraction and other worlds, all spat out, standing in line with what you used to know: this would be the kind end of metaphysics.

Sebastians everywhere.

The light smelled of a desert wind.

If one night a traveller asks me for the way out, and that will not be a dream, that will be a real person coming out of my suitcase, my belly might respond with a gurgle and my hand with a grip.

Just do it.

That law came from the future and slapped us hard on the face.

That used to open inwards. We would sit around and look at our feelings, especially the ones that had made their home in the sofas and armchairs of our living room and hardly ever moved.

Because I can see the future, I say, blind me, I say, blind me with your radiance. Then I will be able to touch the future too.

The day after was just like the day before and will probably be just like the day after that too. But the water had already started moving differently.

There never was the right moment. So he waited. And the world changed around him, taking away all the moments.

Slashing around on solid surfaces. Gliding is our ethical responsibility, he thought, and left his suitcase behind.

That one night turned all her days into nights. Ever since that night, all nights follow tightly one another, contiguous darkness, flooding thickness, no day in between. That night, she found a light under her living room floor.

In this theatre, with its few seats and recycled sets, you lead your entire life as if it were the open world. Look at your reflection when you sing your last aria - the water will be kind.

At the end of the city, on the edge of the water, where the night mist meets the skin of the planet, an embrace, safe and dangerous like a memory.

Those first days that often feel like last. He woke up with a taste of yesterday in his mouth, his teeth metallic with anticipation. Again, he said. Again.

Now go in and close the door. They will float fine just by themselves. But you must leave.

Some things best not reveal their secrets, he thought.

They always leave trails of orange behind, whatever they wear. I wonder whether I do too.

Parts of your body may lie elsewhere. Please relish your sense of displacement.

Ah yes, he thought: where things luminesce from within. I must have arrived home.

And I write even when I don’t. And my hand traces sentences even when I am not. And my fingers mould words even when they don’t. What happens to the body when the words finish?

When your foot touches the crest of Fujiyama, you might become humble.

Between two waters, the breath flows against each self.

Between two waters, the breath was left to rest.

Between two waters, he felt the breath of another.

Between two waters, he is breathing.

Between two waters, i breathe.

Between two waters, i breathe.

Between two waters, i breathe.