Poem for My Birthday

by Travis Jeppesen on September 5, 2014

It would be great if

someone told me they

loved me today, though I

won’t expect it and

neither should you,

blue sea over there

shimmering under an

ungodly glare. Window on

to the horizon like a

painting I am making

in my mind, please let me

exist for you so that I

may go away soon. That

man with the funny hat there.

I sit beneath this beach um-

brella in Spain and turn

35-years-old while my

friends doze on lounge chairs

close to mine. The sound of

the waves reminds me of

the womb. I am in Florida

again and there is no ocean

between us. 35-years-old

and no children – no you,

either. Hey: still alive.

All the Great Bunny Rabbit Deservers

by Travis Jeppesen on August 20, 2014

I can’t wait to triumph over my own delusions (it will never happen)

by Travis Jeppesen on August 20, 2014

No Title

by Travis Jeppesen on August 20, 2014

Opening Friday in Copenhagen: Cucumber Bones

by Travis Jeppesen on August 20, 2014


Hannah Heilmann, Uffe Isolotto, Renaud Jerez, Travis Jeppesen, Christian Jeppsson, Yves Scherer, Matthew Smith, Alex Turgeon

22.08.14 – 20.09.14

Opening: Friday, 22 August, 18.00-22.00

Cucumber Bones is an exhibition based on our predilection for attributing human characteristics to objects.
Similarly to when we recognize features or faces in pebbles or a cloud formation, we keep insisting on incorporating human characteristics in the design of our everyday appliances often using cute and emotive anthropomorphisms to counteract their inanimate properties. This wish seemingly opposes the contemporary human self-image that is migrating towards a more clinical, technological state of being.
Cucumber Bones features a group of works that in different ways explore forms of anthropomorphisms and their inherent connection to notions of nature-culture. In function and gesture these work oscillates between human and artificial, between utility and fog.
In medias such as animation, sculpture, assemblage, text and installation the artists give inanimate objects human features dealing with the foolish, tabooed and sometimes banally humane in being human.
This exhibition emerges from these diverse conceptions of human conditions, dealing both with physical and aesthetic characteristics within that range of (pseudo) bodily elements that we have become so invested in technically bridging.


Siljangade 8
2300 Copenhagen S

Organized by Anna Frost & Christian Jeppsson

No Title (Time-object)

by Travis Jeppesen on August 17, 2014

If I could re-entitize myself, he says, I wouldn’t want to be man or beast or household humdrum object, the thing I would like to be is Time itself, and yet somehow still alive in the way I am now, able to feel things, that metal object over there, I forget what it is called, it doesn’t matter, can it feel things, for all we know time is nothing but feeling, the type of feeling that can suddenly invade a thing and thus alter it, but no, he continues to say, I can only be the thing I was made to be, which is something not quite human and not quite spectral either, I am an object, and by my essence, I am allergic to that very thing I most wish to be, Time, and therefore I don’t see myself morphing into it anytime soon, however I know that morphing is a process, each moment that passes I become something else, I wasn’t the same object I was even five minutes ago, I feel myself growing hard around the edges and one day I will crumble into dust, will you remember me then, he asks, as I am now, perhaps when I am forgotten by you and everyone, that is the moment I will become Time.

No Title

by Travis Jeppesen on August 15, 2014

Chicken in my drink for sale

by Travis Jeppesen on August 11, 2014

Popular culture showboat…

by Travis Jeppesen on August 10, 2014

Popular culture showboat, another scum system named Rhonda to sit on my cock and fellate the indifference produced by craving. Chase after the toilet paper, it is similar to the refined de-emergence, yr new toy. Angry acrobats petrified by the stemcell debate and in mourning for Darwin’s anal aptitude exam.


I was thinking of you before the sky, thunderstorm ate it. At last we have tremors of freedom wrapped around our toes engaged in holy war. Desperation’s hopelessness a key tactic for mind gravy lawlessness, evoke evoke, shadow erupts puke green grapefruit fountain before the splinters inevitably gyst a singular Alp. Monuments to get to know streetlamps, walk along the forest synthesizer too troubled to know.


Limb to limb with severed meaning, we let our body break up the causes. Truth drinks juice out of a wild banana. Sex in spirals, won’t juxtapose fecal atoms with that to be deployed tottering off the lemon ledge pie o’ possibility’s tweenness circlings.


Pithy patter if you ask me, but I’m not the one here choking on the mythical rosebuds. Here’s an apple apathy oh own the moon – (man the causality before wrinkle blows in the sway.) I went down alright to murder the twinkle in yr eye, that gave rise to roses giving out sides of fashion that seemed to snort delicacies which transmogrified beneath a rarefied freedom – always delusory upon a planetary structure such as ours…

The River Itself

by Travis Jeppesen on July 29, 2014



I’d gone to Budapest

to try and

make my handwriting

smaller. No, that’s


not quite right, but then

neither am I, and the Danube

isn’t blue, and neither am I,

but green and brown,

a bit like the sky.


The therapy of ill-repute —

those window-sill splatterings —

got the royal grind on girlfriend statistics —

Europa matters less

than this river, whose

grime bleats gold;

György’s insertion.


Still life with morning wood, loss

is hilarious. Stability

cums in Euros. The Forint

is a lousy currency (I love it!)

I think

all the toxins I needed to function

leaked out of me yesterday

at the Gellért — fuck! to be a tourist

once again!

is it really so much to ask???


I just found the hole of Europe, it was buried in my croissant. I wanted to go somewhere I have no life, thought the hills of Buda would be safe, first night here I run into one of my stalkers from the olden daze. Drink the waters, they will cure yr lung ailment.


The river itself is muted and bleak. A toxic golden green, lovely, that shimmers beneath the Sunday afternoon skylessness. You walk along it hoping to fall in, fantasizing suicide hard-on, meet me in October. You forgot you were coming on, what, the 56th anniversary of 56, clever planning, the city was shut, but all the rip-off joints stayed open — get to be a tourist after all.


Am I the only one who gets to drink from these waters. I just wanted a taste of the food, to be honest. We’re not all that far from what I was previously doing.


The river itself has nothing to say.

You had yr holiday.

You went to no museums,

but lots of bookstores.

Béla Tarr was there, so was

Kathy Acker. László Krasznahorkai.

The river


dives down, the molten panic

of this town, being here


is a lot like




and you love it so.


Memories of youngeryears


surge forth, then

bubble up


to the surface


The river itself is a noun. The town is just as expensive now as all the others. Only the architecture remains. What they all fought for. Amazing. You look out the window. Autumn’s doing its thing, announcing winter’s near arrival. The statues etched into that building. Two women bathed in cloth, the one holds a piece of fruit up to her ear. I want the day to arrive


I understand who I am. Here, in the center. Walking over the green bridge, green water down below. Not to die, but fantasize yrself to be one with the water.


A molecule. Maybe that’s what I came to discover.

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