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, September 21, 2014


Rot und Grün - Red and Green 50 x 20 cm acryl/collage by Karin Goeppert


In order to stay in the good graces
of God you go to incredible lengths
of servitude and inconvenience
even transporting the Sunday school 
brats in that dilapidated station wagon 
your atheistic step father left you in his will  
as post-mortem revenge, as if knowing what   
sort of missionary use you’d put it to,
six little heathens practicing  
a version of human sacrifice in the back seat.
Now if this doesn’t get you a first class ticket
to heaven, there’s nothing left to do but pray  
while cicadas, inspired from On High, cackle in the wind.

If there was such a thing as ghosts they’d play poker on the roof,
smoke our stash, tap into our booze supply, grind
chips and dip into the carpet. One of them of course
would have to be addicted to snuff, leave empty coke cans
everywhere full of brown spit. He would be the one who
left the blue-grass red-neck records out of their sleeves
and all over the floor. Ghosts don’t haunt
                                                      so much as plague. And what’s
worse: not even God can kill them: they’re already dead.

Witches still exist. Today you can see them sashaying
atop perilous designer heels, not brooms, long clean hair shining
on the pallid beaches of Maui and Mykonos  
and not only do the waves gasp and froth, the wind breathe
in fits and starts. Trust me, bro, not only the waves or the wind.
But the only man who has their ear whispers
wicked things therein, the right spells, a promise of tickets
as he gently squeezes your nipples, darling,
to the coolest award shows in town( he looks a little
like Jack Nicholson, circa The Witches of Eastwick,
the same shit-eating grin, the dark glasses), which is all we’re interested in.
That, and how high our shoes can get, in every shade of
witchy pastel, every ice-creamy warlocky hue. The world looks on, spellbound.

Mysterons by Portishead

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