It was about time that I write you a poem

Some days, I pinch myself, to make sure that you’re real.
And even though it hurts every time, I still have a hard time believing it.

You’re the wish I would have never dared to make.
You’re the piece I thought would always be missing.
You’re the words I had never had.

You’re so much brighter than the darkness they’ve left behind.
And I needed that light.

So thank you.

Thank you for saving me when I didn’t want to be saved.
Thank you for listening to me when I didn’t want to talk.
Thank you for loving me when I didn’t want to be loved.

Keeping you warm at night is the greatest honour of my life.

But I don’t think that thank-yous are enough,
so I want to make you a few promises.

I promise you a life, full of smiles, adventures and embraces.
I promise you a home filled with laughter, love and respect.
I promise you a family, strong, united and queer.

I also promise you that I will make you smile, every day.


A taste of freedom

Oh hell you’re beautiful,
and when I say beautiful,
I mean beau-ti-ful.

You’re beautiful like tides and waves
trapped in a glass bottle,
ready to smash it from the inside,
and break free.

And when you will break free,
(because you will)
it’ll start with a small crack,
followed by a hurricane.
A hurricane as big as the ocean,
so sudden, so furious, so adamant,
that it’ll shatter the bottle that once was your prison,
turning it into a small pile of sand.

And you,
after blowing, smashing, virvolting,
you’ll be left of the shore,
on your knees, panting,
the pile of sand on the floor next to you,
and the taste of freedom on your tongue.

As you’ll manage to catch your breath,
the wind will soften,
the ocean will calm down.

When finally the silence will have settled in,
you will rise,
stronger than you’ve ever been,
stronger than the hurricane,
stronger than the ocean.

You will stand on your feet,
all flesh and blood,
heart beating in your chest,

Scarlet Rouge

Blog: The Broken Circle

There is a new blog online called “The Broken Circle”, consisting partially of former members of The Essex Writers Circle:


In the link is one of the first articles there.

What does the “Broken Circle” mean?

From the blog:

A circle is immanence. Encirclement means prison. A circle is a descent into the maelstrom that – heavy like gravity – pulls us down into the abyss of the given. A Broken Circle, instead, is a circle with a gap. It cracks isolation. It leaves open a door to leave the game, to quit, to look for something other. For others. To be broken is the remnant not of breaking bad but of breaking out. Of breaking free? Far from escapism, brokenness escapes the eternal return of circulation. The Broken Circle is about getting together – beyond going round in circles.


The end of our novelty.

“In spite of all darkness, you have spluttered a light that pierces through my harshness.

We have both shrank under the weight of our glory.

Destined for something, but it wasn’t greatness.”


Bolstered progress to bleak process.

We were consistently meticulous to a work that is now fruitless.


Our victories..historic? Our beliefs, stoic?

This is some form of mundane madness, but it doesn’t feel tragic.


We sought not pleasure in one another,

but only hope, honor and heraldry.


Are we the heretics now?

Clinging on to a notion of justice,

but descending into a crescendo of barbarity?


I had hoped that our partnership would be immortal,

Enriched with the beauty of both combat and compassion.


Together, our hand should have transcended time,

With all pain to be purged, leaving peace as our only fashion.


Our marriage of lunar skies and sunburnt trials,

illuminated all that was hidden, all that was strange.


Dormant demons now stroll the land,

But we grovel at their mercy,

for it is they who are grand.


How did we conceive of greatness, but give birth to Kratos?

Why did I imagine a future that had already been lost?

What did you permit to, that had already been forsaken?


We sit on a throne, fit for execution.

The curtains have been drawn, our future has already been written.

Our prophecy drifts hopelessly between truth and imagination.

But the delicacy of my oracle is just a matter of perception.


Deceived into believing that we could reform the world.

Our coalition of interests was nothing but a fools gold.


Logic is redundant in this land of sinners,

to flight and not fight is to hide among the smoke and mirrors.



When the conspiracy runs its course and the clock strikes its final hour,

who will crucify our memories?

Lest the precious moments can not be saved.


The ‘utopia’ that I walk through, glistens because of you.

In your destruction, in your elegance, in your hope.

It was all in your view.


So with our mirage of lost fortunes,

We shall strife through despondent darkness

For the rule of peace does not reside in exhaustion.


No nation may bow to us,

but our bond is resilient.

For the density of our union, not a single empire is equivalent.


So shall we relinquish our reign?

Make free the pillars of power?

Slither away from our sovereignty?

All that we see now is solitude,

and an empty eternity for us to devour.




Clementine portraits.

Bleach blond horse manes.

An epitaph for our lost leaders?

Or just the gallows? For it is they who are treasonous.

Eco-promises and political paralysis,

Where the strangled successes taste like bitter-sweet molasses.

Will the levee ever break?

Will the swamp ever drain?

Where is our Atlas to hold up our sphere of mistakes?

Or will we simply crumble under the strain?

Chronicling the sieges that our tribes love to wager.

Will the colossal blow give us a silent blissful danger?

Have you ever seen something so serene?

Purged and purified till nothingness is a coherent reality.

A place where beauty and darkness can no longer reside?

It feels so quiet now, like a thick gloopy silence that rings in the ears of a flu ridden child.

The seven deadly sins do not reside here.

Nothing to hope for, nothing to dream of, nothing to fear.

Will this be the fruition of our resistance?

A friction so epic, that the sparks will engulf us whole?

The human life. Ruled by stories. Condemned by nature. Remembered by the few.

They say that free will is the manifestation of the mind.

That oblivion is embedded in to the nucleus of our being.

But where is the freedom from this strife?

The get-out card that gives us liberty and order?

The delicate fingertips of serenity strokes us with their dignity.

But we take pride in our demented cemented cracks.

Where the space is finite and fraught with division.

We are not defined by our struggle, but consumed by it.

The wails are so common now. How do we drown them out?

How do we find peace?

In a land where there is nought.


On missing

Step by step

You are fading away

Step by step

You are making the way


Little by little

I start to forget your face

Little by little

I get used to it


Step by step

I thought it will be easy

Step by step

I became a fool


Little by little

It is just for our memories now

Little by little

I disintegrate together with all of it

Filàk Dupèrre


I love this time of the year

This time of the year wherever I am 

I love this time of the year

For now is this time of the year –

This time of the year


I love this time of the year 

This time of the year that is

Today yesterday and tomorrow

This time of the year that is now

This time of the year that is Sunday


I love this time that is texture –

In All;

I love this time of the year 

This an other time of the year that was there

And this an other time of the year that is to be


This time of the year that is absent in the middle

And this time of the year that never was

I love this time of the year

This time of the year

This time of the year


Ossídio Gaspar

The Judgement

Today, I do not need the witnesses

I do not need them to expect me

I do not need to perfect my reply

I do not need to hear the rest of it.


Today, I am alone in some body

I am all together in its animation

I am certain of whatever it might do

I am here wherever it happens to be.


Today, you cannot question me

You cannot pull me out of me to you

You cannot save, grasp or guilt me

You cannot find me without me.


Today, they have to live it alone

They have to care for all the faces

They have to reply to their perfection

They have to ask me another time.


Today, I must embrace a day

I must forget about the days

I must find the day after a day

But live this one on my own.


To Z

Classic in style and classic in taste
Quick to feel but slow to judge
Benevolent as Solomon the Great
She is daughter of never ending river

Kind but warm
Well-behaved but common.
Loving but discrete
Simple but pure

She is looking at me from the above now
But on an equal footing
And even though particles of her violent grace to me were short-lived
They stayed with me until I grew up.

Ossídio Gaspar

Light is more than what I can see

To speak of lights and where they are

To know a light where it is

To see and not

At once


To speak of the light and where it was

To know light where it was

To capture and not



To speak of the night and where I am

To know this night where I am

To leave it and not



To speak of you and where you come from

To know you where you come from

To lay under it or not

A Sun


Ossídio Gaspar

On nights like this I know that nothing can be done.

On nights like this I know that nothing can be done.

The situation of the days before, accumulations of nothing as well, ends with an amountlessness that means nothing, writes nothing, can say nothing.

It does nothing.

The year as well.

It is a night of the year that will never end, because it is a year of nothing, and in no way exists, nor in any form may it stop existing.

It is a night like this one, of the years gone, and the one that will never actually pass.

It remembers everything and can do nothing about it.

I cannot leave it. It is in fact my departure. Endlessly leaving itself.

Letting itself be.

From the better years, perfectly memorised, and now completely actionless.

I am full of myself. The night is full of itself.

So full of nothing. No questions, no adventure, nothing to get away from anymore.

I am in no rush. And nothing arrives.

There is no time for anything else. Nothing but time.

Actionless time, amountless days of the night that cannot contrast, cannot repeat, cannot mean, cannot take away, give away, find a way.

Still, unpatterned.


Unthrown, untaken, undivided.

Everything to me. Nothing but everything.

The night of all things that build to all that is, with nothing to do.

No emergencies. No half-forgotten words needing to be rediscovered in a restless action of text. No half-memorised sentences looking for the language of their whole.

No halves. Just the whole thing.

A night.

A year.

Another day of it.

It is perfect time, untouched, untouching, untouchable. Seamless.

And seemlessness.

All is. I am and I am, and there is not a single gap, no leftover moment that would have as yet no idea where to insert itself. It is just a perfect constellation and I look at it with an unblinking stare to meet its neutrally metaphorical gaze.

And it might look at me. This whole.

But I am already embedded in its total perfection. It does not need me again. It does not require me. It has me.

I do not have to do anything.

And I do nothing. Full of it.

So perfectly full of it.

Just as if I were not there either.

As if I had not been here all this time, looking any different from it.

I am as finished as this night, as unfinished as the day it ends.

Endless. Perfect. Perfectless.

Just here.

Nightly. Daily. Yearly.

I am and I am. Without a person in between. Someone to ask a question about this time or that time. Another person who remembers as a person who does not. Then asks what a person is, what that person was and if a person is only in the end something that will be, not something that is.

I am too successful for that.

I am too much a part of the opposite question:

The one that does not need to know any more

The one that does not know anymore.

And forgets whatever the intended memory was.

Forgets everything successfully, all the intentions and the intending, as if there were no difference between forgetting and remembering, because the space that coincides with either of those moments has nothing to do with either moment.

It just is and they just are.

And this night just is.

And I have to be.

Nothing else.




My name is Frank.

I think I just met you, right?

But does it matter in the end?


I just texted to my wife –

she said I am allowed to fuck you and I should leave you afterwards.

Well, trust was betrayed.


So now I am mad.

Deconstructing roses on my way.

Wearing unironed shirts

Claiming damages from You.

House I built for us.

oh, can I play with your hair? Your noodle hair.

My wife allowed me – I have no wife, so..

I went to have a haircut today – pardon me.

I just smashed my head into the door of our house – it is fine – I know the carpenter.




For what and why?



i will wait you keenly at the station, darling.



Ossídio Gaspar

I am not in control of the seasons

You are not here

It is not here

They are not here

I am here.


Things ending

Things never started

So things begin again.

The difficult days







My change

My stasis

My distance

My year,


From every first time of it

Up to the next thought of it

There has been this third, unthought,

Known for a weather’s weather,


Again – as it was

I have been – outthought

By the change of change.

Ossídio Gaspar

Separations of Two is One

It disappoints because I am disappointing

And I am not yet disappointed

To scandal but it was non-scandalous

The distance is its own agreement.


A back to back all the way round fit

The body turns like a clock

I live at first sight before the hour

And then pushed by every second gaze every second past it


Organisation turns in the head

Adjustment for no foresight not uneven

Since back and head not both ahead

I turn myself in because I cannot look out


It is before me and I am home only after

It takes the same time not to go back

I turn around and this does nothing

It has been waiting for me to turn out again.


I am disappointed because it is disappointing

And I am not yet disappointed

To mourn but it is non-morning

The separation is its own fulfilment.