Long time no/ sea is deeper/ then Cretan Porphyra/ (Heracles’s dog’s purple phase) Smelling;/ Fishy business/ Like empty shells/ there’s no substance in this letter/ just an earthy report/ from “tourist”/concerning John/ Smooth sailing muddy rivers/ of bodily waste/ a pell-mell cluster of organs/ any one of which could betray the other/ And when I say “bodily” I mean the kind that slits like lettuce/ purple jam/ slips through your fingers/ And when I say “fear” I mean the kind you feel seconds before smashing into a stonewall/ Body’s ending/ like this postcard/ like tearing Romana/ or cutting throats on Youtube/ Carpaccio (the old roman painter)/ said; no newness in the name of human territory/ Nowness is nothing like a holiday/ like the ocean/ is a mindscape/ A pond becomes a lake, a handful of dust a desert, a grain of sulfur in the blood is a volcanic inferno/ Purple is a certain journey/ like postcards instead of emails/
The caveman rockscapes into a cheap motel (mistaking it for something static, an eternity of form) painting horses on the wall/ two-stars-cozy-all-you-can-eat/
(In the mud-hole) golden wad of hair/ belongs to Alice, said; the history of being/ is the story of boundaries/ zones of geometric abundance and oceanic emotions/ Dear John; all people shit/ everyone sleeps in the purple palace of nothingness/ Joe is sleepless/ moonwalking tiptoe through tulips/ taking a vacation (said as a proverb)/ a salutation is something that bleeds/ till death (like gods and rocks, like the colossus of Rhodes)/ Like the cheetah, her black tears ends with a grin/ in the corners of her mouth/ The realm of bodies is playing chicken/ Humpty Dumpty/ traces of the real/ a semiotic animal reappears/ on the wall/ lilac Pegasus/ cheesy breath/ What comprises a cheese-hole is a mystery made up of itself/ like Joe/ black matter/ sunset-waters of Kos/ forgetting bad times (yet to come)/ Poor Johnny’s running (from his name, again)/ from a fairy-tale monster/ hiding under the tulip with Alice (merged so perfectly like salad al fresco) said; dry my tears with your tulip petals / so soft/ her name is like that song; / Buzzing/ under the tulip/ with your fingers in the mud/ Joe is stuck/ with concussion in a cheap motel/ gathering his army of stones (terracotta-clones)/ placing objects in the counter of found and lost-lost and found/ At dawn (at the mini-bar afterparty)/ Guests are pissing in the fountain/ staying lukewarm in Euclidean geometry/ Ask Alice if she ever wanted to tear her petals/ Ask the architects about the obsolete, about the colossus/ Ask illegal immigrants how to escape/ from things that are; are not/ visions of what is yet to come /sub Pompeii /cocktail-sipping hangover/ Purple is what’s remaining/ of things that have not yet occurred/ what failed to disappear/ drops of blood/ on the surface/ olive seeds/ in the water/ John’s afraid/ counts, measures, repeats;/ there are no sharks, no jellyfish, no rip currents/ a language of measured circumferences, predefined routes/ defined areas/ like the flat body of a postcard/ he approaches the sea (or the wall)/ and turns, protrude from reliable edge/ Joe chose a picture of purple tulips (again)/ reminds him of Alice/ her eyes/ like if the water was her anatomic essence/ His concert is a sonata buried under the sand/ I mean gravel in a dialectic sense/ As in, tomorrow/ as in human shit will be golden, glamorous/ relying on the memory of the colossus/ Asphalt will cover/ mummify bodies/ Alice wishes she could turn her petals into dust/ Johns’ mind is subject to interrogations concerning his disappearance/ on the beach/ he will be categorized as an outdated method of psychotherapy/ Mad Joe; what a trip/ sub sun/ sunburned Ra drowning in the Mediterranean sea (it’s novel, holiday-reading)/ a further chain of events/ liquor-eyes spotting cheese/ Bedtime-snack/ Life is filled with black holes/ Poor Johnny is decomposing/ in the abyss/ in a spermwhale coffin/ If there’s an itching; a nettle between your shoulder blades/ write Alice your location; / she’s like the ocean/ seamless/ John is habitation/ with no name/ Dear Alice/ greetings from ancient islands/ the water is warm/ sunny whiffs of salt and/ tulip flowered-toilet paper/ By my window a purple horse is tied to the wall/ I’m calling him Joe.

Soloshow at H. Bergdal Gallery, Malmö, Sweden