The Essex Writers' Circle

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So frigid and rigid I wait

For distant yet so close a day

When I find an escape from this maze

That I am lost in for decades


I will bloom like a flower

I will conquer the shade

But for now I am nothing

Without colours or shape


Sitting in the corner

And inhaling the faith

Surrounded by people

Who can’t see my face

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.

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

Ossídio starts…

If every man of ideas is an idealist then the sum of every part is capable of situating a form to every thought that has no description apart from the emptiness it is said to be, as a thought. Undressed, addressed. A calculation may be a thought, an idea, an idealism, or a form. If a part then a part away from every part. Apart in the past. Like literalism or common sense qualifications of quality. Not in the past, but apart, there, in part. As a part of what it is, emptied to receive the historiography of its name. The demographics of name idealism. The man and the sense of his ideas, a form of writing about not-writing. To fit things in to the time it still takes.


Every man who is an idealist thinks that he is an idea.

Every idea that looked like a man was thought to be an idealist

Every idealist that thought he was nothing but an idea believed he was a word.

Every word that was ever spoken imprinted upon the man’s soul and looked back from the past.

Every image from the past is a nothing but from a something there.

Every man that confused himself with an idea that was a nothing but, was nevertheless an image of a something there.

Tom’s foibles are an image of something there.


The intersection of systems T & E an interesting proposition of which R feels at little liberty to comment upon. Although, beneath the semi-erectile haze the two systems do somewhat mingle. Despite the one sailing off from the other and the other sailing off from the one they still collide on the flip side sharing a brief reconciliatory gaze before setting off again on another monotonous tirade.


To have an ideal is to be an idea,

An undressed address, a continuation of success.

A manifestation of present shortcomings.

Yet, all these clarifications can only be assigned retrospectively

“What is an idea?”

-“Fuck off Socrates”

They just are and I don’t want to be


And so it went..., Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

Meursault starts…

Welcome to the world of screaming acrylic. Worship thy warning, love thy advertisement. Assimilate every empty referent. Herald the new gospel the Janus faced gods of late capitalism have come.


But don’t let this patriarchal multi-faced body ruin your day. This very day that you walk arm in arm with whilst saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and can I have a pay-rise if that’s okay, ‘sir?’ No, step off of the platform in order to re-form. But into what? You can’t even speak unknowingly, let alone freely. I’m sorry – that’s another one for you. This is a terrible introduction however, you’ve been here for years – so what’s the fucking trouble?


“Ah yes, a troubling dread indeed,” contemplated the narrator and looked that the alarm clock. “7:55! Fuck.” Whilst looking at himself in the bathroom he exercised saying “thank you” and please” over and over again, until the last trace of this hasty dream was wiped off alongside with the horror on his face. He quickly put on his clothes and as he was taking the last glimpse of his sentimental interior, he passed through the door and evaporated into the outside world. Today was different.


The progress made significantly possible from the State of being to the state of being allowed beyond a Stated form of being – somewhere between being and not-being – exaggerates the context both ways and writes the story of the possible into what the possible really is. You begin with a line about something, and suddenly you have linearity already, too. You speak about a difference and this difference being somewhere not-Stated means surely a state that states itself beyond the State, as long as you draw the difference away from a Statement of all things into the Statement of All Things beyond the State into the State it really could not be after all. Your failure may already be its failure, but your success is certainly maintainable beyond the exigencies of describing its failing states, substituting mathematically a state for a capital letter, this looking like the beginning of you state-able work.


I had a dream in which a plastic hard hat screamed at me. It cried; “Beware the brightly coloured signification of late modern capitalism”, but before I could heed its cry I was awoken by the comforting safety of construction. A long visibility jacket came into being and told me not to let it ruin my day, but I could not comprehend it before it passed into non-being, because “Unauthorised entry into the site of Tom’s writing is forbidden!”


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

Filàk starts…

Nonsense à [(p v ¬p0 v ¬(p v ¬p)]. We need to get everything right. The opposite is true as well: [¬(previous sentence) à ¬(first sentence)]. “To be is to do,” but it is not necessarily the case that to do is to be. Basic stuff – hope you’re still with me. Two nauseating charlatans discuss the difficulties of being bipedal. I really hope everything is alright

All right



To take it away to another story is to choose another story, one begun in the same as not-it, but somehow then and therefore possibly contained in some space that is measurably and immeasurably both, going around in a circle that could then be the understanding of either. Either P or not-P, saying this or that is saying already this and that somehow without this being able to state this or that. If the people involved in the history of this story are indeed all right, it may be because they walk around, taking it in turns to be either P or not-P, and always then either P or not-P, this Person or that Person, whether this is being P or not-P. The charlatan must be the one who speaks the longest, or the one who takes the longest to speak.


Men who lack a fondness for bi-pedalling bi-gendered torsos often end up fetishing nonsense. But your analysis is quite correct.

He is P.

She is ~P.

She is P.

He is ~P.

When together, for moments we are both pining to be each other’s P or even each other’s ~P.

What is certain is that we are only ever one for one another.

What is certain is that love talks in nonsense in order to be.

What is certain is that Freddie chose P as a homage to his Penis.


P nor Q nor negation or affirmation are of no real interest to me. The interplay of signs and symbols is out of my orbit. But perhaps it cannot come into orbit. Perhaps I am misunderstanding the interwoven fabric of the text. I fail to see the letter for the meaning, the sign for the signified, and struggle to rear my head above the weave, who am I? Another drowning interplay of absent and present in every text.

And so it went..., Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

And so it went starts…

Regarded she cares little for my life, it was interesting that she still felt it was okay to call me over while I was, firstly, stood with my friends; and secondly, while in an evidently heated discussion. For no quantity of money on this earth would I want to have walked over, but tonight wasn’t about want or desire, rather, it was about resolving conflicts. Her and I, unquestioningly, have had conflict in the past.

So, I exhaled, apologised to my friends – who, by the way, knew what was about to happen – and I walked over to her.


To have an intercourse is to have a diplomatic solution. The Treaty of Her Bed. All issues are aborted with contraception. Sex divides into three categories: Satisfying, unsatisfying, and sex for the purpose of never having to experience the former two ever again. The pretext is peace and all reasons have ceased. I can only walk over to her if I have some hope that I’ll never have to walk over to her ever again.


Who is the person we leave behind in order to speak to another? Probably someone we prefer not to be with, in the time being that would mean not speaking to her, but staying with us, as something of ourselves more desperate than chancing who we really could be instead. Why go in? Because it is already sex? Already some phantasy of accomplishment – pre-coitus being something more similar to the revival of the separation in post-coitus? But if we never go over to her, to them, to the stranger, or the strangeness of something still not that familiar, we would never know what it would be to leave ourselves behind. Perhaps then we are strangers to ourselves too, in between these feelings, and breathing would be the same as the struggle to breathe. In this case going over to her would mean to become the struggle of somehow already being. As strange as this might seem to be. Speaking to her would be familiarising oneself with the same strangeness of being who one is.


She called for me across conflicts and I came.

Sexual metaphors in politics keep me boundlessly entertained,

Entering my mind was someone else’s butt,

So my response to your crafts was smut,

And I think I just wrote a limerick to my shame.


A boundless map of possibility sadly all my mind can place is a mire of unrequited desire. A hopeless occasion for all, distinguished for you by a conversation which contained neither hello nor goodbye. What more could one expect than comments which highlight the increasing banality of sex.

Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent, Vridd Skoggen

The Judge starts…

There’s something inside of me.
An autumn of old age.
A summer of fortune.
A moment of alienation.
A monumental strength.
Something that just is, growing into me.
A resolve.


Resolve of the complete understanding
The man I want to be
The consciousness I’m proud to have
The knowledge I wish to gain
The being of me the best of me the me I mould
and understand


I am the man who walks but fails to talk,
Who minces and jives,
Who falls and strives.

I am the man who ducks but doesn’t dive,
Who breathes but is barely alive,
Who feels but never cries.

Irrespective of all this I am still a man,
And I will continue do with my life what I can.


The question of who I am lives in the eyes of all those I question and receive no answer, or receive answers I cannot understand. This is something I can ask, this is something of me, my limit; and their existence is the very limitation of mine. But what am I to them, after all? I must see all limits, and my own must be for me to care about, and those of others I shall try to find beyond me. Where I am not, where I do not live; for it is only there that my limits end and my answers are awaiting to be understood.

Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent, Vridd Skoggen

Vridd starts…

Without conflict in life a person creates their own internal enemies, then projects those shadows into life problems.
These people then take life personally. Which I personally think is pointless.
I spend my days trying not to breakdown and my nights screaming at my ceiling. I am my own worst enemy. My projector is large and my shadow long and dark.
I find my life to be pointless.


I empathise with your position,
I have previously shared your pain,
But continual focus upon this pain will provide no gain.

Life is a strain falling down an inconsequential drain,
However you can move your pain towards pleasure.

I urge you to cut away your tether,
To float like a feather,
To change like the weather,
All in the pursuit of your own forever.


There is no habit that will be lost without the habituation of another thing to take its place. There is change in the seasons, but there are reasons that have changed all of us. Seasonal change. Some good reason. But it repeats itself. It is not the change we want; the changes we need. Gift me an autumnal leaf in spring and I will change, for these are more reasons than seasons can explain. But for now, we all have our place.


I went round and round,
Spiralling ever down.
In the spring I worked and worked.
In the summer I fell in love.
In the autumn she would turn away from me.
In the winter I drank everything away.
On new year I hung myself.

Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent, Vridd Skoggen

Meursault starts…

The judge of all,
Pleasant and cruel,
Attender of balls,
Watchmen in the halls,
Orchestrator of the fall.

I hear the blissful many call,
And it’s back to you I crawl,
Seeing once again the divinity of your rule.


Masters in the deep
Let something seep
It drops
And then again, there was only
Looking like drowning
But I am afloat. An ocean of love
My heart’s keep.
They were tears.
Not mine
But those of the rulers of my heart.


These are laws of the loving ones,
Ruled, divided, watched and decided.
In rivers that run deep through the human soul,
All are punished.


In the end only love can save you from oblivion
The black hole in us all is shaped like a heart
When filled with love existence consists of nurturing and caring for the garden we plant over oblivion. LOVE OR OBLIVION

Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent, Vridd Skoggen

Ossídio starts…

These emotions we seem to share can both burn and freeze the moments in which they appear. Their moments are soundless, they are sleeping, but in dreams they have they are populated with noise and restlessness, tired and yet they must awake themselves to sleep further, to lie in both darkness and light, in the torrent of rain or in the torrents of sunshine, because dreaming we must do apart, in ourselves in the remote distance of our unnatural lives, apart from each other. But we are alive in these emotions we share. Moments we can find each other in.

Moments to remember, to store, shapeless and formless in their waking birth, laying in their bed till the night comes, to give them their unnatural education. Ready to aid new moments ever weathered by the elemental forces of emotion, linking together a community that makes a narrative, narratives that can hold each other.

An understanding of these emotions and moments is to accept their fleetingness and temporary state within us.
It’s to mould the negatives into a frame for your light and to allow the positives to grow into something greater than ourselves. To stand in awe of our self-reflection and to be happy with the reality we inhabit.

An emotional sickness has gripped me for quite some time now. It has clouded my mind and dulled my perception of all that requires my sentient interpretation. Horrific events have fluttered by me, just like the passing of an insignificant leave caught in an autumnal breeze. Consequently one is unsure whether this is an affliction upon my being or a more natural reaction to the reduction of moral sentimentality which for so long has been spread upon the muddy field of society. In considering these thoughts I believe that I have reached a conclusion, this being that I am more my ‘self’ than ever before. No longer am I a mere collection of other ethically obliged selves moulded together, for now I am one unique self, devoid of all others. I for one am exceedingly impressed by my findings, by this turn away from herd mentality. The return to the self is laid out bare in front of me for in my ‘sickness’ I have found sanctuary.

Konrad Caikin, Ossídio Gaspar, Scarlet Rouge, The Judge-Penitent

The Judge starts…

I don’t mind living but I can’t stand life
Brief ecstasies of embracing you soon go from smooth to ripping skin
An Instant of cognition can soon sediment into dilapidated structures
Playful smiles soon putrefy into shit staining grins

“Life is a sausage with two ends, life tastes meaty, life is murder, life is an angel of hell, an angel that lost his wings,
I ask you what live is” – you said, but how could I answer, I’m, all in all, still alive, my heart guesses.
“Life is bony fat & a big bullet full of ideals
and other placebos.”
What is that force that ends all beginnings?
             Is “life” now your answer? Is it “live now”?
I’m speechless simply because I can’t breathe.
                                     Lung cancer thinking –

Meaning of life. Reason for life. Joy and suffrage of life. Why? I am a new born kid, rebellious. ‘I don’t want to live, but want to enjoy the suffrage of life!’ Said I to myself in the crowd of homeless animals. But then I took a glass of water, I was holding in my pocket for three years of troubles.
I am lost, life, life, life… I might take a shot, shot of whiskey and wait for little while a for my dear sunset, when I see no shadows. More happy, but still struggling with my wounds on the hands I used to trust.
No answer without a question.

If I painted you onto the ceiling above, I could lie…
With no such room, the canvas has been spoilt.
What efforts there still remain, until my task of you is complete.
So, why would I lie? I cannot when you, too, are remaining: a smile in my mind. Of course, still not here. Nor am I, after all.

Konrad Caikin, Ossídio Gaspar, Scarlet Rouge, The Judge-Penitent

Scarlet starts…

What builds our borders? What runs through one’s veins? Where will any origin ever emerge?
    Why are we feetless? When did we lose our teeth?
           The skin of my soul burns, my claims age since years.
                   My brain hurts, it asks, why is the questionnaire gone?
                            But answers are bold men without any reason.

Our thoughts are spaceless. The feeling of own existence is running through the paths into the leafs of trees. It is not the point where is the point, the point is where there is no point. Only wings can tell the meaning of feet. Take a piece of cheese and squeeze between your teeth. You will see. Can’t tell you why we age, my friend, but of one I am certain, to create on time. Your brain hurts – you really live.
Bold men is still around, asking: WHY?

Can we ever be surprised by the empty feeling of truth
Have we not always invented meaning by feeding the old
The young are starving, this seems a question we can avoid.
We can look both ways. Why don’t we?
Even through the smoke, we only see mirrors.

Questions need not seek or even appropriate truth; there are only expressions that build, that express one another. A family builds a loving home. A tyrant lays a slab of marble as his monument, and lets no one carve their own mark for fear of “distorting” the edifice. The young are emphatically hungry, this is good, they will deface the old purified ideals. But all grinded cheese must be spat back into pastiche, so as not to lose our teeth.

Konrad Caikin, Ossídio Gaspar, Scarlet Rouge, The Judge-Penitent

Albatross starts…

Brother, Sister, I abandon you from our nest.
My morning sorrows are now in the drops of mist.
Body that I used to accommodate is in fiction.
Waterfall reflects my soul in bright light of the father.
Mother, close the back yard door.
                         I will not come…
             Birds grown old.

There could not be me, or everything changes before we get to come back.
What smiles were there, only some I refused to doubt
So bring back what I have forgotten to remember
Or you may never be able to see me again.
Or I may never see you again.

The door forever remains open, it is whether we choose to peek, to ignore, to stand aside or turn away. What persists must revitalise in the past, yet it often insists upon hobbling alone, somehow trying to grow upon some present moment of nothingness, of nothing caused. Never acknowledging that threshold it truly is.

             The jealous kid;
             The imagination of the child;
             The anchor of the past;
             The fear of not dying.
             Which tense is our homeland?

Lost in transition.
Lost in the wrong
Of commitment.
Lost in all the decays
Of losing, of missing.
             Let us dig out
             The archives
Of the future
             In order
To destroy them
So that the good
Is again
In all that
Which is forever
Alone, and unknown,
And Before dying,

Konrad Caikin, Ossídio Gaspar, Scarlet Rouge, The Judge-Penitent

Ossídio starts…

Itchy ponytails, but I can scratch my beard
The bard loses his books, only he could write them
Parallels float across the routes towards home.
I will arrive soon, but as I say, for now lost.

Reddened, salt soaked, searing flap of skin,
As I ride on these rapids between my heart and mind,
Protrudes into my temple like a nail driven between the eyes,
Only occasionally intrudes my thoughts of you

Who is you?: Philosophers don’t understand grammar.
Who are you?
             I try to write into the flesh of my void
             But from whom did I borrow
                         the ink
                         that I use?
It is too easy to look for a hope in remembering.
(“Ponytails, beards, skin, heart, eyes, you.”
             I, sorry, I am just thoughts, or a tedious heap
                                                 of e/ands.)

Remember who laughed once, the King of English word. He asked you kindly as God ask its slaves: ‘To be or not to be’. You are not the one to stay in box. It is enough of thousands. Touch your face, something good? No. You are still alive. Relax; heaven is here, where you are. There is nothing more horrible than heaven. Joy and struggle in one. It is like coffee in a local shop: 2 in 1. Paradox isn’t it? Choose one and live with passion. Have you chosen? Yes, no, YES? Good. Now you are a King of your castle.
Welcome to philosophy, we are in the first page still, yet the last page is between the mountains where Nietzsche met Zarathustra.