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.

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.

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.

Ossídio Gaspar

The in-between years

We stood in the corridor speaking of dreams we still had

Both semi-closed to the abundances of before that said otherwise

Whether or not it could be said again, the lights were half-lit so half-bright

We stood in that corridor giving it a distance for the time that was not yet done.


We laughed because we knew and, again, we did not

It was easier to say that way and it was funny because it was not at all

And it became funnier because we knew how much we did not know and all before it

Both reminiscent of how wrong it had been and yet seemingly how right we could still become.


We stood unhappy and tired and full of life

Two unfinished dream states in a post-bedtime corridor

It was funny to see but we still spoke louder than our own comedy

We stood in that corridor and put any dreams of being awake to one side.

Ossídio Gaspar

Threaded Fingers

In my loneliness I love and I hate

And love will not console me

I always hate everything that does.


A hand is not the touch of another

Like a kiss that rivers a distance

Because we are born one at a time.


Make it beautiful because why else

Choose beauty because it is

And then lose it to no attention.


Towards the edge weakness grows

Where heat patterns are exchanged

It was only loss of contact that made the contact.


I choose to bring the leftovers home

I palm them in my nest of opposites

Ungrateful, they keep me awake.

Ossídio Gaspar

The paradox of sleeplessness

I fell asleep and out of the world

I fell into a dream before a dream

And woke up half-way there


I woke up before the light

I woke up in the day-to-day

And the world was not the world


All the shapes but hollowed in name

Before things are one way or another

I woke up in time for change


I started to dream in this dream

I dreamt about space and bodies

Because I woke up in time for time


I swam pixelated in a broken night

Awake but not opposed to sleep

In a darkness that is not unbrilliant


My thoughts danced around me

Dreams of what dreams could be

Fallen out of the world and into its sleep


And as everything had to fall apart

I was put back together again

Woken up after, a day after

Ossídio Gaspar

How to Regret

In front of all these things before me, I will do something

Behind all these things after me, I will do something

I will do something


It will not do about being seen or how it is that one sees

It will be done about not seeing and about not being seen

About all the time away


How it should only arrive again in a retaken promise

The non-speaking intention of an oversized gift

Whatever the aftermath in this divide


How things may have started before these things started

Since the start of the day is at the end of a day

The first day before and after

Ossídio Gaspar

How I will end the decade

There are 10 more people than before

Other others and the endless years born between them

Ten on being ten more than ever and what life went into that

Another to an other and the decade of time that means every X years


A person I want to speak to is now older than the last time I wanted to speak

10 dates of dating the last ten times I said anything at all

And if anyone speaks to me, there are 9 people I cannot know at any one time

And they are speaking to me all the time


They tell me everything I do not know including the things I do

And there may be almost ten ways to every fact whether or not we count the fact of listening as just one fact in itself

I am spoken to ten years at a time

And I find a century in the mix when two decades spill over each other in the same breath


There are more years than people, therefore too many years for every person

Decades on decades of all the things overlapping in a time that separates 10 at a time

For 10 years a day I live for 10 people every year

I need both the mourning and the even-ing to stand at all before this decade of every lost decade

Ossídio Gaspar

The same metaphors, but now I am in love

Sometimes, on the day that makes the day,

A reason that does not explain itself, a wave

That has nowhere to encounter, makes it

To the shore, leans over the island and

Turns it up-side-down, under the world.


On the day that is that day, a flood that

Does not look like a flood, convenes around

The space it turns into an insular mound,

Resetting the horizon above and below the

Water, taking it up from the ground.


Where a day could be, but is not, before and

After a day, it is sometimes the time of the days

The ocean that covers a peninsula, unfinished,

Of an emergence that whets the whole

To the self-surprise of its own size.


This day is more than the days, it is

Unbegun, and therefore must behave

Watered and unfulfilled, but it must be

Bigger than the island of before, but never

As big as the ocean it knows now.


Today is a day of days, where the beach

Reclines under the humidification, made up

Of sands helpless with the old examples of

Eroded versions of what it would have been,

Had it lived forever as such, unperturbed.

Ossídio Gaspar

Hopefully this change of mind is the clearing of an anxiety rather than the immature growth of a new one.

On a day I will split my head open and let the anxiety juice spill out onto the floor. It will pullulate from the cracks of my broken eggshell skull and ruminate from the meetings of my face and hairline all the way down to the bottom that will horizon the flow. It will valley over awkward protrusions and cascade between uneven cavities that lie unbodied in its course. The soles of my feet, where my action usually ends, will feel it at the edge of its posterior course. The puddle it then forms will lake a leak for a while before exuding entirely. I, myself, will not fall over until the dizziness from nothing left makes me fall in on myself. I will crumble to no more than the width of my standing circumference. People, who were in no way witnesses to this detachment of things, will not walk over my fallen remainder because it makes no difference either way, as there is no reminder.

I will crack my head open like a nutshell and there will be no one left to stare. The headache that had been within will evaporate in the size of everything else and finally live long and prosper in the nation it knew better than I did, the borders it wanted more than I ever did. The pretty suit left over will drop softly through the height of its full standing and lie in on itself – a flat cylinder. The rest of me in a pool dedicated in memoriam to being left alone. Someone will pick me up and wear me for a joke on some uncomplex evening, possibly for the purpose of entertaining another person native to a country I would have never known. We will be three people dancing on that poetic night, minus me of course. The poetry is a given because it exists everywhere just as it is, as does my headache now. Nothing hurts. The pain of having gone through this experience is the new plain and unbreakable horizon for the answer to all future pain: it has been lived, it is done.

At first I will remove my ears and my nose, then I will take off my lips and one layer of the skin that surfaces my face and, after that, finally, I will take out my eyes. A very fine and dry sand will start to seep out from the gaps formed at either side of my head, the sand will slowly hourglass onto my shoulders, creating a finite but melodic sound as it reaches its first base. A similar evisceration will occur through the nosey opening at the very front of my face, only this one will make it to the bottom of the world in one single fall, and the musicality of its journey will be much harder to discern from its one great stretch. But a much more humid, although still grainy, substance will scoopingly drop from the unmediated passageways of my lip-missing mouth and my empty-looking eyes. This one will gravitate with a more deadening impact; moisture in its directing – much heavier, more certain to fall, even if everything else is still going to fall anyway.

Ossídio Gaspar

I have to sleep at night

I feel like being sad and thinking of only you. I think that I feel this way because, only a few moments ago, I was thinking of you and feeling sad.


I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night

I disappear in the ideals that mean more to me than I do

I do and I do and I am tired and

I hope that someone who can make me better notices.


I feel everything I feel always for the first time

Everything is absolutely unique in the boredom of interminable renewal

Because an increase or a difference happens onto something that was not itself

It happens onto something before that was not it, and it increases what it was by being onto it now


I say what I feel because the difference pronounces everything anyway

I have to be sad to write this, I have to not feel like doing anything else

I have to have the person I want to notice not notice, be entirely ignorant of this

By myself, the time, to feel, to feel it again, and remember the difference

As if this were the culmination, as if this was to be all that that feeling was

Perfectly remembered in this lack of a developing future


I am stuck in the time that reminds me of being alive

The actual difference of what I want is subtracted from what should show me that being


How am I?

I am fine again,

Like yesterday

I am who I am again

I am yesterday, as I will be tomorrow, as I was going to be today before today


I am not changing and everything else is changing so that I do not change

Every new feeling more than the last, or different from the last, but enough of a change not to let me change

I am not decided by something that actually happens

Something that could happen


But what then if I could actually identify with something I had done because I and it had been for the moment, to make the moment, a moment as large as my name,

And not just my name once again repeated in yet another feeling that erases the effect of my name

That I may have landed, arrived in the dark

Not slept for a night and found the itinerary of the unembarrassed movement of everything anyway

That I could have trapped a segment for my own becoming and held it for a moment

And gave you my name

To notice

Despite everything that might be said

Despite everything I might feel

Despite everything I had felt

Despite the non-sleep

And the arbitrary difference between this feeling for now and whatever memory I had to have of feeling before

Despite not feeling like it,


I could still try to say it, to become it without trying to forgive myself for not being able to change

For not being able to be it, but saddened always already just by the thought of it

Because it had been more, always more than what I could think of it

Because it was with you and the person I imagined to be with you as I had imagined a whole world out of the undefinable logic of such an example of things

You and you again

As I could not even think of me.

Ossídio Gaspar

How to dress well


Close of disclose closer to closing. Clothing.

Birthday bones wrapped in skin. I enclose a gift.

This is a repetition not because it sounds like one.

It begins by oscillation, plateaus and then it looks like itself enough to distance

To not know itself, so it can hide itself without its own knowledge

I acknowledgements

The unfolding, taking clothes off, by literally putting them on.

This is the same thing.

Disclose of the closest to non-disclosure of writing. Cloth.

The thing I put it on is the thing I put on. I put in.

I am put in.

Non-knowledge of acknowledgement.

It begins because I can give myself away.

My Self to myself and myself to My Self. I dress really well.

Life is on the surface, going in is not knowing, either.

After the plateau the promise of its opposite might revise the surface. Dying.

Either or more what I put back on – repeat my dress sense

Acknowledge of gift not wanted. I cannot give myself away.

Knowledge of giving not-wanted.

Biography of hairs growing from out of the skin.

The skin covers itself in skin. Skin is not skin.

Texture and text.



Knowing how to put it on without it

Is the acknowledgement

The acknowledgement of dis-closing, un-clothing

To forget, to make sense, to put it away

To look at it again, having not seen it for a while

Dead skin – the last before the skin of the skin

I dress it up, cannot give it away

Sense-making sense, wrapping, not uncovering

A discovery

Undress of the wound

Unwrap the curtailed, the curtained

Uncorpsing, dead instead

The unborn

The biographical

The self-eroding coast

Self-erasure under a sweaty cloth

Closure to being close, closer to being again



& morning

Repetition is the fundamental

because it does not suit the same way

because it does not suit the same thing

I am covered in it, discovered in it

This hairy uneven texture soaking in the sun

Self-involved, uncomfortable, expelling itself from itself

Spelling unanticipated

Overwriting the meantime

Accepting or not accepting the gift

Taking giving away for granted

Given to it

The unasked so the unquestioned.



Being absolutely famous for throwing the body away

repetition only has to be skin deep to make something by itself impossible



I do not dress myself

An address of acknowledge

To be addressed if how can I address

Closest to going away to be far enough away

As much as living to giving and having been-given everything

In it I give to live

Endless birthday wishes

Like Birthday wishing

No greater government to give itself away

To acknowledge itself in front of the other side of not knowing

A surface covered in clothes more real than the ones I wear


It opposes my gift with its own birthday wishing

Its own ossifying self-discovery

But I do not know this

It looks like me but I could not kill myself on its surface


It almost suicidally disbelieves in the distance of my death

But it cannot die instead of me

This is why we should always be wearing our clothes

To acknowledge the nudity of why it is done.

To make it that naked.

Of where it is done. Address of happy birthday

A forgotten day of an unforgettable time

Closing in on the dis-closure

Unskinnable. Unsunnable.

Unwearable, very worn.