poem: Vanessa Engelmann, photography: Marco Ugoy
wasted lungs breathe morning breath. bones still shivering from three moments ago and a chill wind blowing from the riverside. traces leading to somewhen:
feedback ---- touch. kaleidoscope water, eyes too tired to focus. soaked lashes cover sunstrokes floating away. one hand close to another. sandprints on skin, skinprints on sand, which might be forgotten in a few hours. short term sensual memory - a rough thought not spoken out loudly while above, birds navigate west. some of them scream
ears recurrently echo all that was said and not said and might be. waiting for another now -
reeds cut complementary patterns. a secret garden hidden in green, only possible to perceive due to its subtle odour of decomposition. a buzzing wind blows down from the highway cars float by. stream of dead wood breaks on a pebble
und wenn, what if,
we lean our heads back and breath water?
a street, fading lights, one smell becomes another melting into steady stream of roaring scooters to dive into. washed out neon reflecting on the other's face, eyes too tired to focus. now - 弄丟了, maybe never there under tarnished sky evening mosquito swarms. yesterday's bites still itch, half washed off half printed forever in shaking circles of being and not. steady re-organization shifting between fluid, solid and QQ. iced milktea runs down a soup burnt throat.
vanishing bodies sparkle on a wrinkled anthracite road while steamed air becomes heavy with music. Elise, time to collect your garbage. run jump throw, separate useful from used. one arm close to another. no touch ---- feedback, a wordless whisper: let's go
as long as voice still streaks shallow shadows onto skin.
dawn, break of dawn
long time no see
太 very, extremely, too (much)
大聲 in a loud voice
if, in case of
a cloudy day, an overcast sky
弄丟 to lose 了 (modal particle intensifying preceding clause)