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!


Want more of Angie and her work? Check out her website here - Everything I Promised You Is Being Sold.

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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

would tell

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

First Meeting

 

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,

now cool,

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

for beauty

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

sweet

 

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

croons

 

Little altered

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.

 

 

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