Internationale Poetry-Biennale  -  Filmfestival  -  Salon  -  Netzwerk

Freitag, 4. November, 19 Uhr


Lotte L.S.

Materials Reading Series

Die jüngste Broschüre der Dichterin Lotte L.S. , A town, three cities, a fig, a riot, two blue hyacinths, three beginnings … wurde im Juni 2021 von Tripwire veröffentlicht, THIS ENERGY WASTED BY FLIGHT , ist in englischer Sprache und deutscher Übersetzung bei der Halle Für Kunst Lüneburg ion Vorbereitung.

In unregelmäßigen Abstäden veröffentlicht sie den Newsletter Shedonism.

Lotte L.S. is a poet. Her most recent pamphlet, A town, three cities, a fig, a riot, two blue hyacinths, three beginnings ... was published by Tripwire in June 2021, THIS ENERGY WASTED BY FLIGHT, is forthcoming
in English, and a German translation, with Halle Für Kunst Lüneburg.

She keeps an infrequent newsletter, Shedonism.

Foto Song-Got

Affection for cave, single watt

as certain as there is cum on the pillowcase
she could not          see to see

it took single cell
it took near-finished syllables
it took the crimson-blue fact
it took if not the exact colour the exact shape
it took without appearing at all
it took all goddamn night

the harder we try the harder it is to remember

how the trees stood like          YYYYYY
unravelling repairs she made by night

“there was no scientific precedent for leaving
people together in the dark”

tranquillity vs. the absence of violence
the consequence of love on the page

the doppelgänger looked just like him          but saw lime-green not crimson-blue
gave in easy to her requests          as a palm opening to its bride         
dazzling clusterfuck of fingers          reminding her         
anything would get wet if you were prepared to throw water at it

now the foreground is beyond us
just dismantling the forever

the sky’s answering machine
like, busy    \    out making, like, plans to end it all
           like, booking hotel rooms, like,
karaoke with, like, wireless headphones, like,          a rope / a rope
large enough for like the whole fucking sky to slip through

and the lyric waited
for the lyricism to begin

waking up to sightless dreams
waking up to the unification of an all-you-can-eat government
           the mouth trying to emulate the whole sorry face
\ the overbearing elegance of the stalagmites          just blaring in the free air

the generous highway on fire
the highway generously on fire

waking up to charlotte’s mouth          the future of no-future
waking up to an idea that became t-h-e idea
waking up to plastic hangers dressed in something altogether more terrifying
woke up in colour memories / o blue,          arise
or, like,           it could have been lime-green         
           woke up to!
the sensation of the room taking off
fruit sweeter than ever before

whole glades of fingers
hugging her insides
she put her ears to its desires          one fat fist in an open-air cell

and the lyrical thought
was deemed pleasurable and so unpublishable

then the syllable spoke for itself
then night unravelled through the trees
then this is no kind of forever
then the language forgot transcendence          like,
a cockroach in the dark / like, Signs of Concern / like, sitting in sickbay
watching everyone else play ball
then the sky called 999 from its hotel room          “overdosed on blue”
          the trees refusing to assist
layer-cake-like atrium          sky ready to fling itself over the sorry stairs
then the light evaded a use
then the soul remained terrifically unstirred

 “j’en ai assez”           the lyric no longer had the right to remain quiet

the stalagmites began to drop in succession
finally then the palm tasted the free air
then the present came ever closer
then my sweet little doppelgänger
then my sweet little doppelgänger
then the thought came strongest
           periodically turning on the light
then it touched the fact:

never around          but through
through but          never around

As if to Misread Song

It felt so normal to be ‘inspected,’ ‘looked at,’
‘examined,’ ‘explored,’ ‘interrogated’—
why does the perceptually deprived brain play such tricks?
Still firing off, cleaning up the sopping wetness
of the clouds with a snuffed-out candle wick. The spider
can’t be frightened into a jar. Imagine remembering anything
about those years other than pure sensation—
could the tree do it? The stump of one fallen
nourished for centuries by its surroundings. After some
time I learned to pay attention to ah and oh
and hey—body demanding a toll when another
eventually wanted to enter. At last, to guess instead
of knowing—saying now when the feeling came
strongest: how I miss the future, it’s sideways surrender.
I have since only rarely seen the tree—it puts into my ears
the sounds of all the people living without me:
the dark oaks of the dining room, every knife buried
among the airport car park—letterboxes
where there should have been a lake. Imagine if
afterwards everything can be pure sensation:
sugar-fed and alive in its dismantling.