In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, November 3, 2019

Just another paranoid afternoon in autumn

Autumn is Yellow 100 x 80 x 1,8 cm - acrylic on canvas


Not the best day of my life.
One look at a crowd torn by indecision,
maybe hostile, “Are they like for us or against us?”
Pink Floyd might have set
some of this to music; mom, dad,
viciously festive relatives,  random well-wishers
all urging me to blow out the candles or
they’d chop me up into little pieces. What they failed to tell me
when I was a kid: strangers are almost always strange. And

everyone’s a stranger. Think I’ll duck out of this party. Well, an elfish girl
whispers, I’m not here to turn you on, but I’d stick around if I were you.
I know there’s a chair out of which I’ll have to struggle.
There always is.
Can’t help but remember climbing up one of those
tall buildings in the Financial District for a job interview.
Too gorgeous for words but scary assistants in their secretarial cockpit. I, sunk
in a chair very close to the ground. Knuckles dragging deep-pile or was it shag?  
Beige-haired boy/man in a baggy suit striding forcefully
toward me, half-hearted arm sticking out, eyes empty
as any sky above Needles, California, handshake
notable for its lack of quiddity. I have to leave this party,

sweet girl. And no, I didn’t get the job. Out on the wet windy streets
of Stadtmitte—German for downtown—a puzzle of trattoria and vegan bistros.
Obviously no one’s thrilled to be out. Every door is an exit.

Sunday, October 20, 2019

The Debt to Pleasure

Plinius Sagte (Pliny Said) 30 x 24 cm - acryl/collage/wax on canvas


It’s the Human Resources woman
two cubicles down, near the water
cooler, who has your mind wandering. Lost in space,
pondering distant galaxies, when you should
be holding up your end of a conversation
is where you are right now.
And someone has taken the steering wheel
of Katie-the-next-door-neighbor’s sanity     
and is driving the poor thing right off a cliff.
Not just once but, Prometheus-like, over and over again.
We are staying nowhere post-modern or
right-angled or anally suburban. Instead
one of those funky labyrinthine pink or white  
medinas in North Africa, smoky with hashish and incense,
where only the natives can lead us out, and boy
are they not talking, lips sealed tight
in sad compassionate smiles.
The old Greeks had it figured out: infatuation’s
a pesky deity called Ate’ about the size of a sand fly.
She bites you and you are gone. The only way back is
to give up, throw in a tear-stained tissue, watch rom-coms alone,
eating ice-cream with chocolate bits stuffed inside, crunchy
with nuts and just a hint of cherry, waiting for the phone not to ring.

Sunday, October 6, 2019

Mildly Joyful Discontent

High Up 50 x 50 cm - acrylic on cotton rag paper c/o Karin Goeppert

                                                             I do this I do that.
                                                                                   Frank O’ Hara
It’s almost day and I can
hear the fan whoosh by
and soon it’s five-thirty
the sky’s hesitant exhausted look
indicating more heat’s on the way.
Later on almost everyone’s outside  
wearing shorts which reminds me
of a poem by Les Murray
about the shorts-wearing season
in Brisbane so hot and wet there
people stick to each other by accident.
A few of us wonder how it might feel  
to be stuck on purpose to certain women walking by
(which is politically incorrect if hormonally inevitable),
a neither-here-nor-there proposition though
because so unlikely as to be nowhere.  
Karin is baking flat bread and
whipping up bowls of dip for a pot luck   
thing under the trees with a few neighbors
we hardly know and with whom we will talk
about this year’s heat wave, compare it to last year’s
the farmers needing subsidies yet again
and guess who’s going to pay for it all
climate no longer simmering but at full boil
ready to be served up by the Antichrist in D.C.
the spirit of our age riding into town on a golf cart
alcohol going down so fast that bitching and moaning
roll into one big beer belly of mildly joyful discontent
on this July afternoon in a backyard, Kreuzberg, Berlin.

Sunday, September 8, 2019

In Matters of Taste we are not Equal

Summerpond 120 x 100 x 1.8 cm - acrylic on canvas


Amid the rubbish a storm 
has discarded in the gun
turret of some plump 
burgher’s suburban vehicle
is a piece of kitsch—an awful curtain
or is it a bed spread?
Who owned this stuff?
And why did they have
the bad luck (not “bad taste”)
to get caught up in
one of History’s shit storms,
plague, marauding armies, nuclear melt down?
Some disasters are made to sound
cute. Hurricane “Suzy,” say, or “Tina”
chaos in red boots and a short skirt
comes to mind
and tsunami sounds like
a delicate piece of fish
fashioned by elegant Asian
fingers into something tasty  
and, even more important,
But it feels bad,
it feels like food
poisoning on the Monday
morning you’ve been fired
it feels like an evil verdict  
from the witch doctor-in-chief
the array of nauseating
treatments he’s lined up just for you.
It’s not easy to remain
fastidious when blood stains
on bullet-pocked rubble
are just beginning to fade. Still,
there’s no way I’m going to buy  
that moth-ravaged wall hanging
in the Sarajevo flea market. Not merely ugly,
the damn thing has got to be haunted.

Sunday, August 25, 2019


Axelmannstein 100 x 80 cm / acrylic on canvas - c/o Karin Goeppert


He used to tool around
on his vintage Vespa
with his Korean girl friend
now she’s gone and he’s
leaning over his walker somewhat
surprised by it all staring at my wife
the one thing that hasn’t changed
about him he likes small women
she says because he’s small
and now he’s even smaller
the trees look like they’ve aged
about fifty years in this heat
too shriveled up like bacon
and the wine dealer’s losing his jawline
in folds of whiskery flesh still
we haven’t talked in about
ten years because I think he’s
an unrepentant asshole
and although physical erosion
hasn’t added to his appeal he is
after having dumped his wife and two kids
fucking a lanky yoga instructor
told you he was an asshole
but here I am anyway trying to
lever indignation against envy
while both my knees are going kaput
slowly like they have all the time in the world
to disintegrate on their way to nowhere
and Karin’s hip and one of her knees freeze up
when she takes the stairs
like a peg-legged pirate
and what I mostly like to do
if you discount drinking cold beer
and eating sumptuous mountain food
after hiking all day is to
take naps whenever an opportunity arises
but spirituality someone says with an almost straight face
spirituality will save you every time
but is that better than a room full of English majors braiding
each other’s hair while a jukebox plays the Top Ten of our youth?