Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

The Judge starts…

Couriers keep careful company with present spectres of the past,

Courteously guiding strange desires once thrown forward from fitful hearts,

Who in prayer and deep uncertainty have let sincerity divine an art,

That could deliver such a fragile promise, and reach its love at last.


The fitful heart and the question of ‘art’ – a precarious but hopeful longing for deliverance from eros. A lusting for unity where perhaps all that can be found is the disjoint of a fracture.


An intervention

The telos of eros is economically calculated fornication for the benefit of the state. To have too many pensioners is too expensive. Too expensive! “All coffins, half price, only today!” All people who don’t have kids shall be deported into fornication camps for re-education purposes. They shall be fed four pills of Viagra a day and forced to fuck from sunrise to sunset, until the last bulging dicks are covered with burning blisters and the total labour force of the country has risen 34%.


  1. of Labour and Social Welfare.


All policy is good policy to get rid of the political once and for all.

I am obsessed with the questions that have not yet been asked. The type of things for which a typecast set of principles automatically fail to appreciate only later when they too have failed in the experience of a post-failed recollection of things. This is a gap we can only fail to talk about.

I am also obsessed with time. It has already taught me that I cannot count. My account of things henceforth resembles the account reserved for the previously unexplained which have now failed in the sense that they could only mean the unexplainable unexplainably. Now we have explanation, I am therefore out of time.

My politics are anti-problematic in that I have no beginning to say anything that resembles a politically addressable context of my understanding of things.

All my work is that of love – well, it must be for them, who love to explain things, or who love the explainable things at least. Me, carrying on, looks like me being in love with them, who love certain things, me loving the uncertainty that sometimes looks like the time they will again succeed in after this brief explanation.


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