#peter daniels

Also No i’m not going to apologize for that Demon

Demons, Amirite?

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Peter Daniels 1. Untitled, 1985 2. Untitled, 1984 (Collage on paper)

Peter Daniels 1949-2015

In a moment of love I caught a sense of money and how they make it, and make it up. That city boy, comfortable and sharp in a suit that fits him, steers through the station when the city bars have closed, and an evening of gin is a good anaesthetic when he trips and smacks the concrete. He'll get home, he'll recover in the faith that the concrete is his dream of money: work and lust made into metal and paper, made into numbers that whisper to each other, transact and multiply. Even after closing time, spreadsheets are building up office blocks, and credit that creates the pavement to land on. I saw the drunken city exercise discretion, and the sober city dream of how to keep it happening. I watched the city boy get up and walk. I felt how this money is part of us, and keeps ourselves within it. Some of it has to be love, what we hope and where we're tender. All we have is trust for it to care for us, curse us and keep us in harness, to work for something in a city made out of buildings and people standing up, or falling down.

Look for me in spring's transparent air. I flit like vanishing wings, no heavier than a sound, a breath, a sunray on the floor; I'm lighter than that ray – it's there: I'm gone. But we are friends for ever, undivided! Listen: I'm here. Your hands can feel the way to reach me with their living touch, extended trembling into the restless flame of day. Happen to close your eyelids, while you linger… Make me one final effort, and you might find at the nerve-ends of each quivering finger brushes of secret fire as I ignite. 20 December 1917 – 3 January 1918 ИЩИ МЕНЯ Ищи меня в сквозном весеннем свете. Я весь — как взмах неощутимых крыл, Я звук, я вздох, я зайчик на паркете, Я легче зайчика: он — вот, он есть, я был. Но, вечный друг, меж нами нет разлуки! Услышь, я здесь. Касаются меня Твои живые, трепетные руки, Простертые в текучий пламень дня. Помедли так. Закрой, как бы случайно, Глаза. Еще одно усилье для меня — И на концах дрожащих пальцев, тайно, Быть может, вспыхну кисточкой огня. 20 декабря 1917 — 3 января 1918 by Vladislav Khodasevich Translated by the poet Peter Daniels Source: theguardian.com