In the Days Where the Fog Doesn’t Lift 

In the days when the fog doesn’t lift.

I am going by bus through the streets of a city heading for nightfall. It’s the last light even though it’s still
early. On we go through light and fog.

The area I am entering is a former factory, a restricted area for which I need to show a pass to get in. I visit the place to photograph during the last hours of daylight, when the light is wet and mixes easily with darkness. It’s a cruising spot. A perfect sci-fi-romantic ruin that weaves together bodies and fluids. The beginning darkness has its way with tarnishing contours, causing everything to be fleeting, fluid.

To me the weather is a kind of architecture. 

Weathery architecture merges home and public domain –it creates mezzanines, staircases, hallways, small niches with adjacent chambers and bedrooms.

The weather’s walls of darkness are pressing softly on my skin.

What is weather?

Weather is light.
Weather is fog.

Fog is evaporation.

In the days when the fog doesn’t lift, all actions must be seen as transitory, since all that is static is now concealed.

Foggy weather and being queer seem closely related. Both natures have to do with evaporation and the disarrangement of things. It’s in the evaporation that the disruption of normative feelings can take place.

Warning, fog can seem extremely dangerous.

The architecture of the weather relates to me as an individual. My clothes are drenched as I walk through a sky sitting on the ground. This weather is unstable, I try to be the same.

Can you picture drift light stretching over a night at its end? Or wet particles descending,
blanketing everything? Brilliant clouds that blissfully inform us that paradise is near.

I meet you outside the building where you work. My body, so very bright. I feel radioactively
noticeable as I kiss you in the street. It’s a hasty kiss that almost slides off your lips as if the speed
doesn’t allow my lips to penetrate your membrane.

Mind yourself, walk slowly in the increasing evaporation.

Fog is disarrangement.

We are at the hairdresser. I’m slouched in a chair next to you, keeping you company. The hairdresser sculpts your hair into an ornamental headpiece with water and soap, so you look like a cartoon. He then rinses it out but now it starts to come off in bunches. Big chunks all over the floor.
Crawling on the floor you hastily pocket the lost hair and get back up. Nonchalantly but scared you sit back down, ‘please continue’.

Getting out of bed is the hardest. Getting dressed takes second place. 

Just like colour, touch is an unstable connection that seeps through my skin into a nest behind my eyes, in between my ears, behind my breath and it seeps underneath my toe nails.

I try and act as if I don’t think that colours have real, human-like emotions, as it tends to confuse or scare people.

Dry, rough soil is pearl-grey bait for the normative.

Do you remember how it feels to find comfort under a lofty ceiling of undying light?

I am afraid of being left here without you. At the same time, all I think I know is to be by myself.

Caution, lower your speed in order to adjust to the weather’s changing conditions. 

A ruin is a place where you cannot afford to take steps without paying attention.

When you mix humidity with intimacy, what do you get?

The day begins softly like a hand that slowly reaches out and opens a purse.

I walk through the patch of trees towards what I hope is the direction of the sea. I can hardly distinguish the lines of colours, I feel a sense of relief. My own lines blend with everything else and make me indistinguishable. Fleeting, fluid. Almost normal.

I am isolated from the clouds. Everything seems petrified.

Some moments are stretched thin as sheets.

The day pours out emptiness. I brush the dirt from my hands and get up from the ground. I had been sleeping between past and present.

Attention, an increasing drop in visibility.

Fog is really just low-hanging clouds.

Have you ever seen fog slowly lift in the sun?

Fog is low clouds you bath in.

Fog is camouflage.

Fog is slow evaporation.

Fog doesn’t look like pillows –not like normal clouds do.

They are free particles.

Fog doesn’t look like pillows at all. Pillows look like pillows and clouds look like pillows.

Right now, your hair looks like a pillow. I hope it continues.

       Fog looks like opaque air.

Fog looks like woven air.

Have you ever seen water evaporate? I bet you have. Think of a kettle on the stove and how it’s pushing evaporated water particles out through its nozzle. How the steam lets the particles dance in the air.

I mostly try to dress ‘normally’ when I go out into the street. Not fleeting, fluid.

Fog is disruptive clouds on earth.

Evaporation is sexually twisted postures.

Cushioned queer postures.

Reclined to vertical.

Radical gendered performativity.

Leaking crying container.

Earth resembling sky.

Melting suns into light.

Un-pillowing clouds.

Baby baby baby
(he cried with satisfaction).

Vibrating pellucid molecules.

Darling Rothko copied.

Plasticine melancholic memory.

Soft skin bruised.

Gently un-dividing sections.

Grand opulent hues.

This and that.

Spit and spat.

Spit flows hard.

Cushioned sexual expressions.

But foggy anxiety flows.

Unemotional March light.

Contaminated fleshy sun.

Closeness and distance.

Hues leak fiction.

Wet grassy kitchen-light.

Pronouns: I-flexible.

Sometimes dudes weep fag
(then sexy bodies become victims).

Bodies leak non-evaporated fluids and dirt.

The sky is a vault.
Soil and lungs.

Flood flood flood.

Punctured clouds of static opinions.

A landscape is a collective self-portrait.

The clouds are raining with water.

My eyes are drinking a violent yellow.

Sexy, triumphant nymphs.

Tarnished colour-memories, making everything fleeting, fluid.

Tepid French-kissing swelling with satisfaction.

Scattered hair grows like self-sown plants.

When the fog lifts again…

But right now, I can’t see your face for the soft evaporated rain.


A Collective Self-Portrait

I’m fingering ambiguity, plurality. I’m fingering phonemes.

A smile on your face breaks out, bursts, then fades away.

Flirting with a figurative collapse.

Warning, lush flirting is femme, you say.


Butch-femme, I say.

Your battered eyelids look like cushions.

A marred pussy boy / pillow boy.

Being queer has had everything to do with being unseen, invisible.
Transitory, concealed. Pellucid like particles.

Some associate explicit actions with being queer. The radicality of queerness could, some think, beguile the swayable, contaminate their minds, and overthrow whole societies. But visibility and invisibility, presence and absence, and the simultaneity of that condition relate strongly to queer existence.

I read their comments and shower in their hatred.

I would weep, but my tear duct has long since become sandy and dry.

What is fine weather?

I’m leaning in, arching my back a little. Your soft strokes have an air of heavenly caress.

Weather is transient landscapes.

Fog is wagging its tail at me.

No core.

Language happens to be a building in collapse.

Only my ‘fuck yous’ remain intact.

They have the right to propagate, to psychological wellfare, to walk down the street without being sniggered at.
Some of us don’t.

My sexuality is besieging.

I’m a moat, moating.

Step into this Xanax puddle [gasp!].

What is wettish, aerial light, my love? 

I yum-yum-yummed.

The clouds lighter than the pond.

This queer artist. Doesn’t even reproduce. Doesn’t even make money. Doesn’t even answer the phone.

Sometimes, peace could be a rhyme.

After sprinting through the heath, I stand still for a moment. A ray of light falls through the sky and hits my arm.
Swirling particles emanate directly from me. I am a cloud machine, a liminal wedge.

Please, don’t cry my nymphs.

Another spring will come.

I release my anger like clouds.