Yoke Anima Venue: Seohak Photo Gallery, South KoreaDate: 2019Photography: Song-yun Kim (Color)  

A wind snapped parasol taught and riding out the wind’s hold. A larynx thinning like balloon pursed lips to meet the mosquito buzz of guitars. Poetry blast-beaten into an open and absorbent surface not entirely unlike the erosion scrubbed over a lithographic stone — black tusche seeps deep to receive. Your lyrics shred communication in order to nest within the psycho-performative desire to become nature. For many, the prelude was applied as corpse paint—to become, cosmetically, the walking dead for over ten years before being reincarnated again into a swelling bubble atop a trickle of magma or the fog that separates the fawn from the doe. This desire for darkened melodies and inarticulate screaming is to rub, raw, past the words: no longer alveoli, throat, and lip, yet not quite the Grizzly arcing upward to massage its majestic frame against a Douglas Fur. No, not that you would want to lose the words, for the invocation of the word said worthless is the only way of being wind in the branches. Through the guidance of a worn and, more often than not, scabbed throat you move us past signifier in favor of becoming an embodiment of ceremony. It is true John, like you uttered, imperceptible, under strain of your transformative shrill: “Aloft in the landscape that you hail, I am the fog that seeps in the early hours”. Yet you are neither fog nor landscape. You are, however, being aloft or, better, being as aloft as being is.


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<i>It is a blessed condition,</i>

<i>believe me.</i>



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<i>To be whispered about</i>

<i>at street corners.</i>



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<i>To live in other people's dreams</i>



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<i>but not to have to be.</i>