Published in 2006, Barb Concerto is the first book of the Poet of Sound and Image KiNo.
KiNo wrote ‘Slain in Mirth’ at the age of 16.
You may order the hard copy of this book from the store appears at the bottom of this page.
Published in 2006, Barb Concerto is the first book of the Poet of Sound and Image KiNo.
KiNo wrote the Automated Roman at the age of 22.
You can order the hard copy of this book from the store appears at the bottom of this page.
Intermittent Lunacy is the second book of poems from KiNo.
Currently it is unprinted and only exists as unique handwritten copies
- you may order from the store at the bottom of this page.
KiNo is currently making a poetry album by the same title and content.
It features his voice and a collage of extraordinary soundscapes composed to the poems.
#1
28/11/06 03:31
True to the melodies of death
someone is pulling the zipper through where I have been
in order to cloak a naked reason.
There is nobody, only soul.
#2
30/11/06 07:40
… And if ever before the great swallow of our existence,
this glistening awareness halts
the next pose in the eyelid will be eternal.
#3
02/12/06 04:18
A story that would replace me was handed to me from a manhole.
#4
02/12/06 03:32
… and her eyes were finally rapacious
from wanting…
#5
02/12/06 04:18
Museum of modern corpse.
Full of mute relics,
rotting in their regard.
Some of my ancestors would rather die a thousand deaths than being there.
#6
05/12/06 09:11
I must commit something more terrible than
manhandling former lovers!
Heist, my desire.
Big crime.
Uniformed in hypnose.
#8
07/12/06 17:08
This illusion has a future!
Avoiding fiction.
Shrapnel of truth skips gracefully on the ice rink of all hearts.
#9
10/12/06 06:49
I am a black swan
the ghoul of the moon
in a lacquered pond
I used to love a woman.
Her name comes to mind
when Ophelia slits her mouth to open a wound.
#10
10/12/06 18:12
Advancing towards a concrete idea in order to flatten my face.
Glaciers over this lucidity is a fantastic mirror!
I beget reality by each and every glance,
to forget that the climate inside me is a restless boy.
#11
11/12/06 19:23
We sail in the ruins and vessels,
impassible questions.
#12
13/12/06 03:41
We whiplash you with silent centuries,
hit you in the face with a few histories.
You will find us waiting at the wielding of a sharp tongue.
#13
14/12/06 05:30
Nothing itself is mentally together.
In the body,
inborn stupidity.
In the mind
unbecoming euphoria,
outliving something close to being a life. a lie.
9
The witting machine wrote:
‘If I ever escape this body,
I will stroke the lines of my fate with a
transfigured cut.’
You requited with sadness.
I was slowly disemboweling the intricacies of time.
The man who was used up by solitude
imported visions from the past.
The music ran through the taping hiss of slicing silence.
Brilliant songs. I write.
Who can take heed?
Beyond the hierarchy of all broken things, my yearning.
Here in this roomful cell,
nocturnal beings visit me in the soaring nipples of the night’s inhale…
9
TIRED TRIER
Lars Von Trier is not a cineaste. He does art exhibitions on projection.
For someone who was signed under the redundant manifestation of Dogme95, – an amnesiac and obnoxious bunch rehashing the monolithic principles of the Nouvelle Vague in declaration of a new world of cinema, pursuing ‘honest filmmaking’ – film after film, Trier has been excelling at making films that achieve packing a lifeless art exhibition into 2 dimensional projection.
From his miraculous Breaking the Waves on, Trier’s work has increasingly been inorganic, tungsten bathed worlds of documentary mimicking artificiality with handheld camera that is now a formulaic substitute to be able to write in the cinematographic language, having nothing to say. Although, Trier has things to say, they are smothered by his tasteless methods of realisation.
From his props to how he tackles his subject matter, in the case of Anti-Christ it is vaguely ‘the nature of good and evil and the good and evil of nature’ the film belongs to the most ignoble and autistic of all industries; the art world not to the cinema. Because, ‘Art is artefact, Cinema is life.’ 9.
Thrown in a world of expedient unreality, the Anti-Christ is bookended by the gorgeous Lascia ch’io pianga from the Handel opera Rinaldo which in its all magnitude and detachment from the images on the screen represents the forlorn reality in this film. The most significant part of the film, slow-motion prologue set against Handel may as well be a car commercial. The contorting kinetic beauty of this scene solely depends on the uninterrupted music and therefore is a cope-out.
Charlotte Gainsbourg (Serge, Ma Beau Serge) and William Defoe fuck in their body doubles throughout the film and when not fucking dabble to play a mourning couple who loses their baby. In their weary performances, acting is sealed in a restrained dramatic space, quite literally, since the film is largely set on a claustrophobic forest turned studio set, stinks of artificiality and the same gallery/hospital feel that disinfects any spot of zeal. That said, experiencing the film was intriguing, nevertheless, on the strength of my own contemplative scanning, the thoughts that it mainly triggered on the ebb and flow of its shortcomings.
Antichrist is an art film from 2009 by a celebrated artistic trier, but not a cineaste who would be practically a poet of sound and image like Carl Dryer, Carné, Bresson, Godard, Bergman, Bunuel, Tarkovsky, the latter to whom Anti-Christ was dedicated to.
Is it a Scandinavian trait, overthinking in minimalism? If Ikea was a hallucinating filmmaker, the result would be Anti-Christ.
9