I’m practicing my flows, writing
bars, in the back of the night
bus heading for a strategically
positioned islet of our shared
hopes and ambitions. Imagining
a pin screen toy placed face
down on a nail mat draped over
a cast of your face. Face mist . . .
Miste ansikt . . . Lose face, glue
trace . . . The guest room slowly
morphing into the master suite.
The sheets are a whirlpool. The
bed is a stage. Then the lights
went out. Tomato tossing and
turning, ketchup nightmares.
Draped, drowning, swimming
upstream, butterfly style. I was a
runway sensation once. Praying
for a natural disaster to break
loose. Walking on tightropes
onto the World Stage. Golfing in
Switzerland, I got so bored I
captured a wild cat, built a corridor-
shaped labyrinth out of bas-
kets from the driving range and
made the cat walk back and
forth by psspsspsss-ing and
petting it. A catwalk. She see-
med to like it, purring and gently
pinching my thumb between her
fangs. No whistling behind the
scenes, please! A heckler in
despair makes his final, modest
proposal, selling a stuffed mall-
ard to a bank robber. While they
were dancing, the price tag, still
on his shirt, popped out from the
neckline. At the end of the rain-
bow, there was nothing but clo-
sing credits: Red, orange, yel-
low, green, blue, indigo, violet.
Scum only wants to hear about
the dirt and I have the fastest
clotting blood in the world.
— Kristoffer Cezinando Karlsen
at Damien and the Love Guru, Brussels
until April 13, 2024