Tag Archives: paper

Paper Pieces


Down on that street,
The one that corners 3rd,
In between the knick knack shop
Of lost items from the 70s
And a costume store
Run by Romanians with tattoos
Playing Diana Ross from their outside stereo
I found a piece of you.
It was in that record store
With the crates out the front
Cardboard boxes in the rear
And tour posters of Sonic Youth from ’92.
In between the back catalogue of Bowie
Underneath the rare bootlegs of Prince
Right where I expected The Clash to be,
Making friends with Tom Waits instead
You sat
The idea of you with your paper wings
And paper heart
Placing a foothold into all the things
You could have been
Tucked into someone else’s
Burnt out light globe
You gave me the idea
Of making my own music,
Singing songs outside of my heart
The way you did
With your paper pieces
Now folded
Into my own organised catalogues
Tucked under my arm
As I leave with records
I will play by myself
On repeat

Words by Lisa Inger
Artwork ‘Origami Idea’ and Image by Caen N http://caen-n.deviantart.com/

Agnes’ World of Paper

Agnes lives in a world of paper. It is a world without movement, only still life, single little pieces which form at her whim and live in a scene of her creation. Agnes has a secret, she does not cut the pieces with scissors, she bites them, curling her tongue around each shape, making slender folds and gentle rips until with teeth pressed together she can form the head of a bird, a donkey or perhaps the slender back of a supine man. Agnes feels that with every tear and every lick she is a part of the creatures she creates. They lay before her and she can see them move without her touch, as if her insides have made them real, where the soft feathered sides thank her for the love she took in making them, the edges so perfect in their form that she relishes their taste, which still lingers upon her sensitive palette as her tongue often weeps blood for the pain which creates the figures in front of her.
Agnes has a box, in fact, Agnes has many boxes all around her house and each box has a paper display of figures and of plants, animals and houses and of trains and tables and little tiny dresses and wee matching shoes with buttons. All of them painstakingly licked and torn and bitten to existence and if one were to take down the box, one could put together a scene of such complexity that in its creation you would find Agnes’ memories laid out in paper overlay, one scene of many intricate pieces; such tiny little fragments of creation.
Agnes keeps her heart in little boxes and lives in a world of paper.