The texts are assemblage pieces. I see them as implicitly critiquing conventional uses of text and language, and any illusions of their ability to convey ultimate or fixed meaning, through a process of re-mixing, re-imagining and re-contextualising. These texts were assembled from source materials that I thought contained little cultural (or personal) value, and were more aimed at uni-directional games of exploitation or consumption. I like the idea of re-negotiation cultural materials and subverting consumer-producer binaries. I love to sense slippages between dichotomies as contradictions collapse into little explosions of paradoxical wonder and joy.
A Long Lost Cork Remembers
Day after day just about everything lost in uncertainty
But the bottle will carry it to an end
Not even Captain knows that the nearest rock is lost in mist and waves
But he does know exactly the events which started it
I refuse to consider the possibility that this war is God
And death his collection of sea-shells
When I have finished…
I will place the beginning on some faraway beach for you
Forest City Underwater in the Swedish Neighborhood of Frames Like Paintings
Thought has its own city in us.
When I designed Stockholm I was moving.
Moving got me thinking about somewhat graphic images from a big fabric.
I also lived in bold hope.
For inspiration I looked, struck by the charm,
and created a different doorway and a different chapter in life.
Each number leads to the fabrics stretched on thought.
In each pattern between numbers I can see animals,
and the connection to fairy tales and stories in doorways and houses.
Individuality - these are the story to tell.
The Sweet Sickness
The moment I walked out, the word, it was after me.
A sickly contract came to mind, and it was hard to feel.
In it a smile finished gazing, afraid to want someone.
I’d make sure that I flipped to my key interest.
I left my cross and walked back on to an imaginary typewriter.
Pieces of veil transferred themselves, placing light over my eyes.
With the black-eyed car parked
I drove through that damned distorted dialogue.
The telescopic mood knows my name, but I don’t think I really do.
Well, this boyish bastard, he’s just someone in me.
He’d praise Talent and not write another line for you,
nor a line for anybody else
So my darling someone,
let’s help you breach your head with the sweet ad absurdum sickness.