PICPOETRY

You let me touch an early spring, it was the year before you were born, it was filled with roses but no scent, you said now you’ll know me, I waited, your halo slid down the skirt of the planet, nothing to risk nothing to gain, I waited, nothing to...

He opened both windows because he didn’t know which way the moonlight was going to come in the house. He wanted to be prepared.

Let the viscera climb up

Drawing battle lines as if they were embraces.

Your name was written on the floor as if we were all ready to forget it.

“All ascends carry the weight of the ground they leave behind ”
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Triptych, Oil paint, gold metallic spray and gold leaf on canvas board, 60x100cm, 2021

There we are, top step gazing, the air is different up there, the sun steams like a boiled apricot, we are younger, we are closer to another life, we must never never step down, but the wind picks up.

I left my afternoon on your shoulders, and when you turned it became a forest.

I left my breath on your neck, and when you turned it became a necklace

He said past he said future but with his hand he was already touching the light of now.

cover invisible, line interrupted, roof of air, day adeciduous : these are the ways our angels hide from us

For that one brief moment in our lives, we all, human reptilians, become a mirror, our skin a surface that no longer protects but only projects, the vast light of the next moment.

Aquiferous angel
In his body carried water
And in water
slowly descending
he let it flow

Air and water were sliding beneath them. And they were floating away on the elements.

His first word was mountain. But then the sea opened up and gave him a life. He did well out of it. But he never stopped looking for heights and depths.

There was another world. The door stayed always open. Anyone could walk in. But the world only lasted for a few seconds. Most people turned back. And we just followed.

Post-swim shaky parting
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(photo by Elias Avramidis)

The power of cliché

Several cups of coffee later, small strong dark, lost moments of the day when the day blossoms into an ocean, round shiny inward, and the pleasure of his loneliness dissolved in him like brown sugar.

We’ve all had heard that metaphor, it was nesting under our skin, by now, crawl crawl break, flood flood sink, ah it’s ok, it’s just a metaphor.

And we could never know whether it was us or something outside us.

We kept the windows open throughout the rain.

In the late morning, the city filled with imaginary windows that led to the water or the light, one never knew until one climbed into them, and even then, the windows made further windows, waves of windows lapping gently on that little market full of...

We gathered around the light waiting to see where it was coming from. What a waste of a garden, we thought. But still waited.

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 ...

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.
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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 ...

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.
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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. .
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Oil and gold chrome on canvas, 50x70cm, 2021

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.
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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 ...

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.
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Sinking City XVI, Oil and gold ...

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.

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.

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 ...

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, ...

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 ...

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.

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.