Poetic Responses: Friedrich Kunath @ Blum & Poe


text by Claressinka Anderson



You write my thoughts on the sea,
through a door filled with black rainbows -
I chase them across the waves,
grasping for their curved,
downy arms.

Arms that cup my face and
pull me down on a bed of memories.
Weaving their tales of longing
with painted fingers,
they place their hands in
melancholy pockets.

What is the smell of regret?
A little like salt and aniseed,
a little like Heathcliff sailing
on a Turner sea.

He follows regret
to the cliffs of Big Sur,
where Casper’s Wanderer waits
above the Sea of Fog,
an amethyst Buddha at his feet.

Together, they sit and cry on a shrine
of forgotten sentences -
in their tears the shape of a
country lost,
no longer theirs.

They watch the clouds pass through time –
a white head of curls
glowing through a dazzling sky.
Somewhere, on the shores of Venice, California,
Hamlet still longs for Ophelia.


Searching for a history
that doesn't exist here,
I play the piano to my shadow
until we both disappear.

Slipping into sheets of paint,
I look for my past and
hold it close,
entwine my legs with its awkward shape.
In a large bed,
loneliness can be so seductive.

Dressed up for the masquerade,
so dashing in your velvet suit -
everyone wants to dance only with you.
I give you my hand, but you are already goodbye,
there is always something to leave behind -
and tonight,
you leave a sock for me.

Sunshine doesn’t belong in a jar of secrets -
in my world,
everyone cries and laughs at their own absurdity.
Here, we are forced to love our fate,
sugar cones and sun rays
doorways and letters,
words hiding in a cloud.

When I left, you asked if you could come too.

And in that blackness there is only feeling,
in that blackness,
there is only dust.


Poetic Responses: Analia Saban @ Sprüth Magers

text by Claressinka Anderson Pugliese


Her fabric ensnares you
in this velvet house
of skin,
of blackness.
She is trickster,
moving towards a
beguiling destruction,
steady with restraint -
a dancer poised for collapse,
each perfect limb folding in on itself.

She wears a corset of cement,
her pointed toe balanced on a spider web of stone,
inching delicately across the tight rope.
Ascending the stairs,
she showers in the bathroom,
a hair woven through luminous skin.
A boundary here,
between what is seen and not seen –
a pulsing body wrapped in burnt paper,
glowing on black waves.

Outside her window there is only night.

You cannot enter,
(come in)
touch her and you’ll find she’s smooth,
run your finger along her origami moon,
caress her absent cheek.
A folded sphere -
is there such a thing?
Perhaps you will find it here,
setting over a draped horizon.


Minimalism –
such beauty breaks the heart a little.