Angie Quick (b. 1989) is a painter and poet. Her practice experiments with the nature of language and sensation within both a visual and performative context.
She has performed at WORDS and recorded with the band New Zebra Kid. As well as performing at Ocean of Silence: A Tribute to John Cage at Museum London.
Keep your eyes open for Kevin Heslop's interview with Angie Quick, coming soon!
Summer Vacation in a Camping Ground in Denmark
I know nothing of the language except that it is like licking hot steam from the kettle as it blows,
I am practicing phrases to invite you back,
your back against the grass,
if I could measure sinew to blade--
to twine a place of mud and flesh,
these motions would bed a creation myth--
and dictate secrets in letters home,
a code to say
"I've learned to use my hunting knife"
Pressing of the sun flaking my winter skin
salts the meals over the campfire
and eans favour of the boys
When Jim and John took turns on the rotting log
to call it Jill or Gale
(please insert names that are more familiar to your memory)
I watched their shadows hanker the tale
your father's father
while portioning the meat
from parts of the cow
scrawling detailed maps in the iron pink
against the kitchen counter
But it is here on the day sun and night sun,
man's fire for god's,
that I did learn to scrawl a love,
lettering the branches into
my own kind of blood drawn map
When i imagine taking white curls--yours
between my fingers,
I fist cotton tufts of age
tufting pleasant apology notes for your husband's pillow
After you left--i tipped my fingers into the inches,
of tea remaining in your cup.
soaking my tips and sympathizing my nails a false manicure,
taking damp to damp,
a volley of desire,
sentencing to the rhythm of your speech.
Spilling of you and you
arches a crook in the red rosing
of this dan's fingers
Little alter you
Hide all the beer when I come home this weekend;
what parts part the body,
makes it okay to throw away the sheets;
music, glass and bedding
With the little on-phone-doodles
providing your character
The wilder dwell of your cheeks inflating to an abusive history
that we call 'dark'
beaches of ground animal, plant, mineral bone
places we only encountered in late night
you & the moon
In case of Moonlight
We unknot april--The first time I felt dead human flesh mimicking rest,
The month my Baba died
The moon was full
Five years from then
And I have begun to bleed with the burgeoning phase
I watch the stars unsettle my skin,
Pushy places where these burning rocks more intrinsic than my will to exist
Do regulate a temperament of my body
Weighting the matrilineal line,
What within each these astronomical spaces am I to inherit?
Am i to inherit the moon a space for half our human existence,
Letting gravity unwill the womb?
In the future we will all be astronauts and abortion will be universally legal.