The Interimlovers
Blixa Bargeld (Einstürzende Neubauten)
the whole scale
of cosmic dimensions are falling
out of my mouth
in the description of a kiss
of the interimlovers
When I was small, I wanted to be a filmmaker. not because I fell in love with the craft, or the camera, or available light, or some jazz like that. I wanted to be a filmmaker because I wanted to string together all the sequences in films that I saw that I wondered about - the ones that took place after a cut and before the beginning of the next cut. I wanted to slow down reality and pluck out the shadows, turn them iridescent, and set them free in a frame
between semtex and utopia
this thought stayed with me - the question of interstices. limbos. places that were bookended by a between.
between plankton and philosophy
What happened just after a close up shot of a man doing namaaz, vapour rising in front of his closed eyes? What happened before the cut of a storm approaching his wife silently gazing at the night from the terrace of his mansion?
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage…
- Auguries of Innocence, William Blake
there is poetry in the crevasse. in a space of uncertainty, and trembling voice. a fissure. hiatus. the time since the pandemic took root in the fertile loam of a land teeming with superstition, hypocrisy and kolaveri, until now is a hiatus, too. Interesting things have happened in this interzone. Terrible things, and beautiful things, but interesting things.
they are not there yesterday
and tomorrow not yet
not really
the interimlovers
We have seen the elasticity of time - some days, a hot afternoon lazed around for the time it took dynasties to metastasize, and we have seen the the winged horror of a moment clamping down around a throat with fingers of fear. We have learnt to measure the distance between a human being and the nearest screen. We have rediscovered that language is not enough. The meaning of coming and going and arriving has oozed into the slimy mess of solitude, punctuated with bulbul shrieks, raunchy pigeons, and cat’s tails spiking to attention.
I wade through the filth of mighty metaphors
meta, meta, meta by metre
with gestures far too wide
I quote a few of the master’s words about the poem I share today. Blixa Bargeld - poet, musician, vate.
“The Interim Lovers” are the inhabitants of a blissful moment. a moment with no extension in time. They dwell in places where we cannot dwell: between toothache and oil of cloves. between microphone and macrocosm. between plankton and philosophy… every verse begins with a beat. the beat of a wing. the beat of a tongue etc., that determines its short existence. All the metaphors in this text are either too big or too small.
Presenting Blixa Bargeld’s (Einstürzende Neubauten) The Interimlovers.
*watch the video. read Blixa’s words. wade through the filth of mighty metaphors
I’ve shared the stunning Stella Maris (Einstürzende Neubauten) by Blixa on Poetly before
