Exploring the surfaces of London, Bristol, Ipswich, Liverpool, Southend-on-Sea, Eton, Glasgow, Devon, The Netherlands, Berlin, East Anglia 2015 - 2021.
The following poems by Lotti Seebeck have accompanied clusters of these photographs in monthly blog posts for Ground Magazine, 2017-2019.
Poet Lotti Seebeck
my darling fox is dead
(loosely after Catullus)
the afternoon when
vanilla ice cream lost its flavour
a parrot’s beak poked her belly
for blue stilton bites
the low la stopped sounding grapefully
and Clodia put on a bandana
let grow her facial hair
and joined Venus on tour
in furs forever looking for their second
half height stiletto heel hey
take a look at those frozen frames in the life and death of a fox
counting in the wrong way
back and forth
the times they’ve been touched without protest:
and hold that pose
Floating on my self composting meditation carpet while the city turns into one big rainbow rhythm rink i contemplate the present perfectly making sense around a fortune cookie philosophy and sipping colour coordinated kiwi litchi lassi.
it's gonna be a fine day today.
It's gonna be a fine day tomorrow.
Someone has married the sun.
Someone has made love to the ocean.
Done and documented and long before deadline compressed into a kinder surprise
submitted to outer space in retrograde:
We can’t mend the holes in history but we can make the loose fibres meet.
The future is u n a p o l o g e t i c
penetrators in pretty woodwork costume
Have you ever walked inside yourself?
It happened to me last week, when going to see a motion picture.
Just off Hermannstrasse we ditched the post-war pavement
and found my citrus spirits all over the wallpaper
and my engulfing icesea scrutiny matching the armchairs
and my crimson wool friend became one with the hazel loo cabinet.
When all lemonade was gone and we were still sitting inside our spectacle.
and we felt like no one belonged here more than us
and we felt plenty more references
and then we felt obvious about feeling in references
watching someone else's lime light life
whispers the tree and lifts its roots in the air.
I want to compost into you.
The lake blushes at such pastel confession,
its ground not deep enough for secrets: I think a tree fancies me.
The pond skaters bounce with impatience,
their attention span won’t last to see the miracle happen.
How long will you be dissolving?
Will we know when you’re no longer morphing?
The answer was yes baby yes baby yes.
Their small hearts rattle like an sbahn train.
Spectral spook, lemonade loonies, honey heat.
The yellow chicken was not present.
A third space gaze renders that decade when the system lost its street credibility:
We transfer crypto promises in purchase of happiness,
share interests on options (lovechild : adoption)
We give up ciggies realizing that life should not for ever feel like waiting for the bus.
(summer seems late after cutting the grass)
Doing our thing.
Doing this that.
of linear heritage,
binaries exhausted through server cities.
Generation ungeneric in pursuit of the other best scenario,
all stakes in for a 70% emission reduction cos total eclipse is real.
What if this is already the best version.
Jezebel had underpredicted the first humans' sensitivity. All she meant was shake things up a little. For a swift second she considered talking Eve into trying some Solanum mammosum, commonly known as Nipplefruit. Just for a laugh. The world's first celebrity couple would have most certainly died, which was beside the point. Instead, Jezebel pointed Eve towards a Papaya Tree. That's where things went slightly wrong: Adam cheekily watched Eve do the pre- tasting, then tucked in himself. Jezebel rarely eats from trees, Jezebel prefers juicy dogs. Well anyone knows the story that followed that day's unprecedented sugar rush.