blackmail press 18
Christian Jensen
New Zealand

Christian Jensen is a Norwegian who has been living in Auckland, New Zealand the last fives years.  He is currently involved with organising poetry events for Poetry Live and a Transient poetic art movement called Guerilla Poetry as well as working on his first collection of Poems called Search for Goddess.  His poetry has been published in Tongue in your ear 9 (2006) and Otoliths 2 (2006).  A small publication of 10 poems called Zin Uru will be published by soapbox press before the end of the year. 

Observations of Paint # 2

Vita - Freske i Tomba Emmanuelle

(Emanuel Vigeland)
on left long-wall

all is naked, all is life
the light is framed in bodies, only babies,
the ground grey as stone, only death

she holds the child
as if the world, the ground, would steal it
or suck it into its soil
and decay it
she watches it
the ground
she is standing
on the back
of an ancient woman
as stone-shaded as the skulls
in the grass
she is standing on a woman
with her head bent

she soaks in death
as a barrier in stone
a stepping-stone
from our past
that carries the circle
of life
into dawn

Observations of paint # 1

Woman in a boat
(Odd Nerdrum)
Oil on Canvas 255.3cm x 152.4cm
100.5" x 60.0"

single naked woman
floats into the shore
her skin a shade
that reflects the water
brown and dark like the hills

single woman tucked
into a fetal position
empty wicker basket gaping
to the sky
she leaves the ores untouched
as if they are not heirs
to use
only the waves and tides
move her to the shore

independent, educated,
she turns her back
to a half circle of men
swimming by her boat
glancing over her shoulder
to catch them in the corner
of her eyes

If my body is a machine and my mind is a computer
then I am

A blockhead whose big bang
was an ejaculation of new and improved sailors
under the white flag of a snared goddess
after the pounding in of fast calculations
in an air of whispers where numbers control language
because language breaks down into formulae
formulas consist of numbers
so numbers can form language
repeated in a loop of circular arguments
degenerated by the inevitable occurrence of error
until I become the machine I was told I am

I jam the material fate until I can spread it thin
Over white bread, void of nutrition, so I burn it black,
Until good and cancerous
Media made me stop worrying about cancer when I was a kid
Since preservatives, city fumes, fast food, tap water, burnt toast
And long walks on the beach can give you cancer
si this why I am still smoking ?

My point is that
If my body is a machine and my mind is a computer
Then why do

I live for small moments of serenity
Walking along a secluded patch of Tiari beach
so full of shells they crush under your feet with a sound of shattering glass
the waves rumbling a stones throw away from the rolled up walls
of a canvas house tent
or the yellow-red haze of a cloud hugging the ground at sunset
because Mary could not see my red
my red was her grey tone labelled red
each label she had studied closely
so she could learn the trick of seeing red

she could not

boil Yam until the sweet is in the water
and the God of the Arabian sea brings on the chaos
and I can mash the substance of African roots into my own
and only dream of ploughing my own fields
and stumble upon the forgotten city of Ugarit
my field has been reduced to a leased patch
bordered by tarmac driveways and peeping neighbours
I have a garden
Of herbs growing by the toilet drain
I would move it but this is not really my field
I am one step away from claiming it
But the government ripped the ground from under my feet
Only one step away from surfacing
And now the vulture bureaucrats are eating
Off my back, pecking into my pack and clothes
The jabs are sort of dull now, I'll feel it when they break through
When they touch the skin
I tend to my miniscule suburban garden
Listening to seams break in melodic twangs