I like scaffolding as much as the next attempt to create order
what are all those things that have apparently happened
somewhere? the repetitive strain injuries of history –
to demonstrate on a personal and political level can someone
or you show me the way to my pre-historic bones? I am yet somehow enough
full of beer and your carpal bones on the back of some of my skull
tender in public that hate crime is an almost imperceptible
shimmer on the horizon of this u-bahn station, I estimate
that feeling is at least a vertebrae or purple clavicle, so i give
thanks to the tongue of the dawn choir. chaotic good burns the streets,
chaotic neutral stains the sheets, it’s not not reverent it’s a feeling
refracted fuck shit up
politic of snuck, dialectical glamour, sideways glimmers at the sideways
glances shiny plastic chandelier branches – fuck heterosexuality’s matt
gloss, municipal pheromones cut with talc –
here everything is tilted tit for gilded
tat; decorate the use away, etch sweat and melt into the crisis of feeling’s
brittle solution: a minor gateau, i stopped being afraid of aviation
catastrophe and now use my time in the air to jump at the sun,
assess my place on the Beck suicide ideation scale, address
the state of my nation’s blood circulation – my praxis
is camp hatred i.e. i do not want to make anything
that would not make people think I would not work with the Zabludowicz,
i swear and it’s the funnest option,
the real champagne is always claiming ecstatic
agency in this vacuum that we’re all just trying to sleep sitting up in
a comfy yet stylish eyemask, none work with left pleasure.
the chronic mental health thing which affects [insert multiple objects]
is, like ‘a letter from the state’, apparently not who i am, which is
lucky but discouraging journey work – back to the drawing board to scrub
the cave wall clean of fortune’s misplaced fire again, dye a flag night
with the charcoal from my burnt down spare rib
But i am partially what I am, among other fallacies: contemporary
artist on budget flight between european countries, 20-
something pragma-gendered animal sad about accidents of
spilt hormones and adrenaline junkyard chemical contamination
communist poet doubting the politics of that distinctly
worn opulence but still blaming the moon, i avoid anything
that scares me out in the great unwild so i can subject myself
to it under laboratory conditions, bandage the fag ash under my skin
on my own terms, science can be fun and holy blood fiction,
experimental collectivised endorphins, it’s funny
how even these small baroque unpleasures could be ripped away,
used against me, against me like my funny use of funny, queer, impending
harsh irony and nothing taken for granted under current climate
conditional lenses fucked against the stained glass of the public
sphere, give me irreverence or give me death
or both whatever i don’t care which, i just really care
for obnoxious joy, hyacinths dainty by the hearth
sometimes I am asked who the work is for
and the answer is it is for nobody having to work but
some days, like tonight, the answer is just if you know you
know you don’t have to lie to me, i know
you’re telling the truth, subterfuge
evades everything these days via
the opacity of everything all at once sober
libations to this silly thing i call a self flitting
disposable during the light
touch approach to life
found after declining
demented hops and the strobe of public life
repeatedly in favour of imaginary honeysuckle woven
a sunshade against the indigestion of iridescent light fixtures
i have no soluble solution i’m just learning to slice
the garlic thinner with age
give my real name to the state
as my monastic name, lying
to be true to save my
soul’s head (the
soul’s soul has no sense
of bureaucracy and therefore is
in no danger)
i am pure dark light and gently fried
rainbow chard, sesame oil, warm almond milk
accepting the risk that articulation is the problem
but i love it, so here is a model i built of it collapsing
some sub adequate recovery process, leaked formula
the escape plan looks impossible in this font so i’m planning
to rewrite it in perfect cursive in gilded invisible ink
then i will burn it to cook the best roast potatoes
see let it never be said i disregard materiality
the price of oil shoulders or multiple fingers
i fill the keyboard with all my leftover skin shit,
same as the next hoarder of sentient excess
some just trade it all in for gold
just like that all gone
in the blink of an eye the world vanishes
and reappears and vanishes and reappears
so many times every minute
and yet i am still so scared every single time
don’t fucking stop
Caspar Heinemann is an artist, writer and poet based in Berlin. They are interested in queer mysticism, experimental poetics, and countercultural aesthetics. Their first book, a homo-pastoral epic poem set in a near-future Thames Estuary, is forthcoming from Vile Troll Books.
