POEMS FOR ROTER MOHN
Roter Mohn a performance collaboration with Yael Salomonowitz
Douglas Gordons', The Room, 10.10.15, Berlin
Two performances in correspondence between Jessie Holmes and Yael Salomonowitz at Douglas Gordon's performance space, The Room.
​Cliffs are futuristically extinct
edges, peripheries, and show-offs
anarchists and/or celebrities (and vice versa)
vis-à-vis
the act of waving, coming or going, has become a permanent motor skill
eviction at a time, on time, no time, never late
no regrets
put your hands up
empty your pockets
and spread your wily mind so truth can come clean
massive fine
specialized lover has to wait, age, change shape
ice age
bleak alley waste haze
shock cremate
fine sand fondled and sifted through a stranger's fingers
blown glass reminiscent of Venus
in double vision
stacked upon one another
records the fallen sediment
a reoccurring penalty similar to a hog-tied roof rack
on the hood of a crimson, crass convertible
a 4-cylinder red Firebird in the moonlight
burnt out at the brims
taken for granted is real
dust in the wind burns out with a blaze
won't cause a crime anymore
the consequential shadow becomes hotter than the disappointment felt towards the lazy
old and set in one's way, but there is a rev after the most sour infection
chances are not numerical
and can't be sold as a limited edition
she knows about real backroads
lean
unassuming
nothing going on over here
looks awkward on camera
sleek ozone
referential garment and/or accent
focus on skin care
and physical health
composition
to feel like your home and happy to be there
a break and enter of emotion
an attempt to make things right
a reactionary kiss after a bad dance
nothing's for free immediately.
​
Headlights surge across the shores; the wind is merely the aftermath of vaulted skies. Synthetic tarp, the synthetic tarp barks! well-kept dog in the distance tries daily to be a freeloader. mythological cabana house dream white shack vamped redamped broke lamp questionable Campgrounds are bleak, says one; There's a quartz leak, says the other. All the way down the dusty road
to meet at a dead end of faded white linen
blazing red embroidered temper tantrums
temperate contours in the night
with ease, there's a lizard in the kitchen. So that makes two: a white flag goes to a misfortunate blame, an unidentified supernatural stake.
which can leave one feeling the same sickness as any other equally severe hospitalized speculation
tired, cloudy head, long-drawn-out stares, high-security gated community, a strata of daily narrow-minded solutions
in most cases, a decent man-made rabbit hole or advanced trespasser
will eventually tear their committed and consistent industrial thread denim
and feel a sense of loss, which leads to another sense of realized having
and then at the climaxed bond between the lonely and another thing
there is something
deep down in the grotto
in the damp, musty dwelling of the least
there will be a phosphorescence of ease
and inscription of form and hue embedding deep into the weave of the yesteryears
a family album that declares
It is you who chooses to
look at the minimal
as less
or nothing
or only the lonely
Times void will not last forever; therefore, try to refrain from panic, but first let panic and fear and lack of air devour you, befriend the darkest, most rigid fury of pain, and then betray it and slay it in the oldest transcribed depiction of salvation.
the most massive explosive acknowledgement of victory recognized through the beautiful simplicity of a thread that hangs on to your body with everything it's got. There is always something holding something else together.
and it always should matter
Allow change, batten down the hatches, and release the rib cage expansive treasure chest. Reveal your cardamom potential; digest every northern gust of wind taunting you with guilt. High-quality aura ghosts are matter and have needs just like the rest of us.
a supernatural embrace, transparent hands holding the sun sets ...and dawn hits the horizon like no other
silk pant slithering down your side, cool hand
satin draping high five slowly sullen
it falls down
to your thigh
morning rise
damp denim
from early teen grass
t-shirts stained
a blast
attack
and thought-provoking mundane suede
the field
in your town
the jeans
in your town
the bra
in your town
the car
driving around
your town
sleep on the sofa
mash crash
we have a place
for you in
velvet town