Fiction | Poetry | Other | 5.5″x7″, 208 pp., paperback
We live by breathing oxygen, but we also die because of oxygen. We live feeding on nature, but we also die because of nature. But, Everyone, do you realize, as you live, the fact that you are citizens of Nature, citizens of Earth? We drink silver, and we are just those who have immigrated to a movie that features Nature. Immigrant is the Observer. Observer is the poet. Poet has several bodies. I that acts and I that observes the I that acts. I that follows the I that observes. I that records and condenses. Johannes Göransson’s poetry is a bang bang – art of these I’s. A film of the Earth’s paths seen through the eyes of someone with an out-of-body experience. And poetry that has smashed the boundaries of genre. Like the mandala of Potala Palace I have seen in Tibet, Göransson condenses within a single poem the inside and outside of Nature’s and Earth’s time. It’s as though his poetry takes us to the forest in Lar Von Triers’ Anti-Christ, where it’s filmed, but then suddenly we find ourselves standing in front of a vanished movie theatre of our home. Göransson’s poetry is a film that Death peeks at, the scene of shooting the film, the film shot on a roll of film, the movie theatre, the Arcadia. A single poem is the world’s interior and exterior, it convulses wildly like an animal that has eaten the poem’s interior and exterior all together with silver. bang bang.
“I make a language out of the bleed-through.” Göransson sure as fuck does. These poems made me cry. So sad and anxious and genius and glarey bright.