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:

http://broken-circle.com/blog/corona-and-pandoras-box-starting-a-blog-when-history-begins

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.

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Scarlet Rouge

Success Story

I

She was older than old, ages of years – without any wrinkle. Her voice was her envy and it was loud: day in and day out and through every night without an exception.

Her main concern – however – was to come first.

II

She smelled, I remember, disgusting. She smelled like old ink that never was spilled but always preserved. She stank like a tiny and black and mummified heart that is wrapped in a dress made of dust.

She smelled as if she’d never ever could possibly rot.

III

Her name, though, was love. I killed her last night. Some warned me I would not survive her. But action is how one proves people wrong. No more does anyone knock on my rips from inside. And, which is more: no one will ever again. No longer have I to feel like a dungeon that’s supposed to look after those it surrounds. I broke myself, thus I broke free. Whom I broke free are those within me.

Whatever may beg to be back in the future – I’ll stay happy of loss.

IV

Now: go in and go out as you please. Just if you like leave a comment to me. But not on the walls out of flesh! We have mouths and can speak. Since dark is my blood now. No one will ever correct like a teacher misspellings I’ve done.

For writing is not to be shared.

V

My blood is my own and does not belong to a race; or a group; or a friend; or a hope. It serves only me and touches nothing but paper. Never again I will write red on red: I can write now, and read what I wrote. Sometimes for life a murder must happen within us.

Sometimes for life love has to die.

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Scarlet Rouge

I, idiot

Join the army.

Be the worst.

 

Take eye for eye

(for blindness’ sake).

 

Do not take care!

Instead

take lives, in shorts:

partake the worst

of all the worlds

you can imagine

– don’t imagine!

 

Be more

than stupid.

Love your hatred.

Know who’s foe.

(Know knowledge.

Know that knowledge

is your friend.)

 

Or just be happy!

 

… carry on. Be. Be.

Be the best

of all

( – the slaves) …

 

& – do!

Fight change.

(If it’s no money.)

Embrace your chains:

„it sets you free“.

 

Be one who won

when times run out.

(Most important:

do not wonder

what will happen

never:

thanks to you.)

Thanks to you.

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Russian Beauty

She’s a Russian beauty wrapped in chuddy paper, she’s a Russian beauty, who, whose beauty, she’s a Russian beauty in einem Zopf aus Kaugummi, she’s a Russian beauty, ein Maikäfer sitzt vor mir auf der Tastatur, what is Russian, what is beauty, she’s a Russian beauty, some day I learn; some day I learn y and z are swapped on English keys, she’s a Russian beauty, Turkish guys who look like Aryans, Maikäfer im Januar, she is, I am hungry, how does an Aryan look, I wanna learn, chewing gum is my castle, der Mensch hinter dem Tresen aus – Stahl?, who is beauty, wo ist Schönheit, some day I learn Russian, some day I learn Spanish, chinesische Schrift birgt zwei Geheimnisse und keines mehr, I am hungry, what is beauty, what is looking alike, how, ich bin hungrig, she is.

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Scarlet Rouge

Poem of Pithy-Potty Proposals (or: a tiny *not so untrue* joke)

Retreat. Give up. Empty everything. Stop lying to yourself. Grasp hopelessness.

Don’t affirm again. Detest enough. (Mainly if it’s your first time.) See there’s nothing to see. Feel there’s nothing to feel. Conclude there is nothing to think of. There is nothing to think.

Hate everything. (Ignore mirrors.) Don’t fight them. Do not fight ever again. It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth anything. Step. Fall, if you live in a universe of gravity. If not – fall nonetheless. Force falling. (If it’s no effort.) It is no effort.

Don’t think you can laugh. You can’t. Don’t think there is love. There isn’t. Let beauty pass. Don’t chase it. Let it die.

Be bitter. Be more bitter. Stupefy yourself. Drink. (Don’t be drunk.) Sleep. Hide. Distrust swallowing. Crash. Cry, if you have to. Satisfy your needs. Never break again. Break down. Fail further. (If you prefer, kill yourself.) Don’t prefer. Who cares? No one. Not a single one. In the end you don’t matter. (As in the beginning – and in the meantime. Mean times? In deed, mean times.) You don’t matter enough to be important. Important enough for any decision. Actually: you do not matter at all. Nothing matters. There is no decision. If you can, shatter. (Don’t if not.) Who cares, we asked. Don’t ask. Quash all questions. Never reply again. It doesn’t work.

It never did.

„Eating and shitting are left.“ My ass! Bestow yourself on it. (On the other hand: don’t give a shit.) There is no power. There is no craft. There’s no skill. There never, never, never, never was a loss. Thus never be proud again.

You think you stand above it? You don’t. You’re messed up. So: if it’s necessary, fuck – alone or with others. Moan, but only in front of yourself. Suspend your relations. But don’t be violent. It’s WASTE. Just be ignorant. Ignorant enough. Abandon every excuse to be happy. Abandon every excuse. Be grim. Dismiss smiling. Don’t bring anyone to trial again. They’re all sentenced already. At least hope for it. Don’t go for it. (You can’t walk.)

Never defend again. Of course – don’t trust. (Don’t believe. Don’t be nice.) Don’t be kind nor anything else that is more pathetic than necessary. (By the way: don’t speak.) Don’t search. Don’t look for x,y,z. They take the piss out of you. Still, to be able to piss is no argument for carrying on. (NO, it is NOT.)

Neither is anything of this open to dispute. In fact, not a scrap. Nothing in nothing, nothing waits somewhere, especially not around corners. Nothing waits. Nothing ever started.

 End everything. End it now. End it. End.

END

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Scarlet Rouge

(not un-titled)

We share a minor chancelessness. Who do you think you are?, I ask the mirror (really, not me – the mirror). And I scatter tobacco (not on purpose. I know him: Mr. Purpose is a neurotic. I do not like him particularly. Only his edges. They seem trustworthy, though.) The mirror starts to sing a song within its own (seemingly wrong) grammar. I listen carefully, and jump with my head in its face: INTO THE IT-FACE. This was brave, I tell my blood. And I continue: you were a tad old, weren’t you. Which is what I ask the mirror, or rather its shards: seriously waiting for two answers – for a monogamist solution. (I think I laugh, additionally.) Well, you got it: usually I do not expect even one. (In other words, as if there was at least one fitting already: how I treat the debris is a sign of disrespectfulness. I’m too broken not to feel close. This is why I deny responsibility.) Neither does the shattered care what I want it to be. It is indifferent. And still, it remains to be its IT. So, we are colleagues, if you want. Yes, if you claim it to be necessary: let’s say, we are sailors without sails (but only then). There is rain on the fog on what is left of the mirror. Its sound hurts. Perhaps it’s my saliva, but I do not believe I’m still capable of leaving a mark. (Only, of course, in the notebooks of the ever-pleonastic fascist Platonic regime I’m forced to die in one day or the other arbitrariness.) I rub my face in the mirror’s cenotaph, and say no goodbye no longer – but only since there is my answer: why should I?

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Scarlet Rouge

Dry trying (this is just and only for the Essex Writers’ Octagon)

& for the Tom that existed on the 24th of October

What does it mean to fall from a tree.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to carry a stone.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to lie around shoulders.

I don’t know.

What does it mean to sit on “rotten benches”, with “bony fingers” between “fat legs”?

I –

It all means something?

It means “I don’t know”.

It still means I’m not still. (We are dry rivers and deserts lacking stone.)

Where is the leak?

What does it mean?

What does it mean to be leaves, to be Atlas, to be scarfs, to be “Scarlet”?

It means to fall, to carry, to lie, to sit, to not-know-why, to not-know.

(What does not-knowing mean?

I do know.)

I am Scarlet, the Atlas, a leafy structure filled with fall in the scarf of a foreign (vegan) milky wayish cul-de-sac (beyond logos).

I am the leak.

I mean, I don’t know. I mean (: I’m mean.)

I carry my fall.

Thus

it is fall.

There are leaves.

What do they mean?

They do. They fall.

They’re not still.

They’re fall. (Not only theirs.)

They are the banks of dry rivers that lack being deserts. (I lick their lack.)

They do not mean. They know. They do not know about a tree called “tree of knowledge”. They know. They fall.

What is the desert?

Lacking.

My fingers are stony. My legs are rivers. (I feel dry.) I’m not here. I’m not where I am.

I’m falling, carrying, lying, sitting.

I am not.

Am I leaves? Am I fall? Am I deserts?

I MEAN: I’M NOT BARTLEBY: I’M ATLAS: I DON’T KNOW.

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Scarlet Rouge

From SHE CARRIED HIM (“SIE TRUG IHN”)

I stare people in the eyes without smiling.

What is it that beautifies under the name of autumn? Is it not the aesthetics of fall?: of drops of clairvoyance and of leaves and of misty plains and of frozen loafs of earth and of frosty showers from grey dead skinny skies – is it not „them“? Yes. Yes, it is this wooden nakedness of fingers that yearn without painting. It is the feeling of loss. Irreversible, not irreparable. It is birds that cease to sing, and start to cry. And it is the honesty some call decay. For we can rely on life to come back with the screams of colour. Still will it come back when there are still layers of cotton on still paling bodies. (Do you hear the mourning of the hemisphere’s dusk? The omnipresence, the feast, the all-embracement of solitude?)

What is it that beautifies under the name of winter? It is the scared puddle beneath shivering brows looking for warmth before turning to stone. It is the one melancholy within the knowledge that nothing ever ends, and everything continues forever. It is the veto against all narratives of last times. It is simply beauty – birthing itself. It is if I woke up: We can rely on life.

We can rely…

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The girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc.

If she was the girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc., she would realise – that she had nothing, AND only this nothing but herself. (And this capital-AND was her capital, the only capital she ever could gain.) And, well, to be clear: she did realise it at once, since, well, she in fact WAS this girl we reported on. „However“ (which always comes after the A/ENDS) – this self of course was just the randomness of the stones that were parts of a lighthouse in paradise built to lead GOD out of her metaphysical empty storage room of lies and pacifiers: „of course!“ And – „and now, exactly NOW, it is your turn“, spoke Zarathustra. „Oh – my – God!“, replied God then – immediately – surprised – and flushing. „I’m… well, I’m… well, I’m simply not prepared!“ „Well? Well! As you know, ass, you know, we are in search of quality. But – as you see, ass, you see, we’re still speaking. In other words, we did not find it yet. I mean, quality. We did not find it!“ „But – I am the word!!“, quoth God. „So are we“, Z. said. „I mean, you are not that special, got it? – Therefore: go home. Go home, God, and cry, and feel guilty. Maybe you find someone who’s responsible. And – guess what! – You did it again!: Banish mirrors. Be your own iconoclast. It’s… well, it’s healthy. You don’t have to hate yourself. – Ignoring helps.“ „But… but I have no home!“ „Finally!“, Z. – exclaimed? „Finally – you understand. And so do I. All in all, there is nothing. Our condition is yours. And, to be honest – how could it have been different? We are all in a relay. Our causes are simply others’ effects. So, nothing new on the transcendental front! We’re all equal. We’re all equally impotent.“ And the girl with the beard in the storm without purpose or soul or sense or etc. realised that her nick name was Zarathustra. But some called her God. Which was why she said „poor she“ to the mirror the next day, to be sure.

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Sehr sehr geil

It was she who ate salt and drank from the sea. Her lips were swollen at night and swollen at day, swollen in light and swollen in darkness. Even her sweat was dry like no wine. Thus she decided to go and to find a wise woman that dwelled in a tree on a mountain-like wave. It took her some time to get started but as soon as she did, she approached what she sought. But the wise woman, known as the best of all hosts one could ever imagine, gave her nothing to drink and nothing to eat. Moreover, it was not before noon that she stood up and opened her mouth. It was by then that she said

So wander further, my girl, and into thy paradox’s arms. It will be a thousand reliefs for your soul – because it’s your truth.

But why?, asked she who was salt with lips that were swollen: why?

To break in this moment my very-wise metrum: it is when I am intellectually desperate, daughter, that I eat a bread of Nutella. You have to know, this is a secret of mine, and I’m paid to relieve it. But let’s concentrate from now on on you, the wise woman said. Listen.

And the wise woman obeyed instantly herself with twenty big smiles.

And in the sound of a source that opened its mouth, there was one message that she who was salt had to read from the book of the sounds. And it said like a tortoise without its own house: You know, considered logically there is no difference between cheddar cheese and the only one we love. I mean, no difference whatsoever. No criteria to decide. You got it?

And the wise woman smiled one more time, and she said

The more comprehensive we are the less understanding. The more you think the less you conclude. And – I am finally sorry to tell this, but – as the freest you’re deciding the least.

And she paused. And then she continued with two and a half fingers piercing the wind:

So make your love out of cheddar, my darling. Conclude the sentence on thinking. And then decide nothing – but to be free.

And the wanderer ceased all her searchs in the end. And she found out that she did not found less than before. And her thirst ceased as well. And she had to forget that in fact she was vegan: she ate all her love like the sea eats the coast, and drank the blood from the arms of a tree whose name was „A PARADOX“. And last but not least: late in the night she became a wise woman that dwelled in a tree on a mountain-like wave. And in the branches among her there was a twofold equation without any metrum:

Acceptance is escapism. Awareness equals fear.

And the wise woman said:

Yes, trust me, I want you to build your nest in my hand. We’re those who fight in the fogs of abstraction for change, for this single change after which we can lose again someone and something.

And the wise woman asked for a bread of Nutella.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Reductions:
             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
             Forever,
So that the good
Is again
In all that
Which is forever
Alone, and unknown,
And Before dying,
And
smiling.

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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.

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Scarlet Rouge

Golgotha.

I shout!,

it turns out.

It turns

out:

my harbour

burns.

 

Aloud

hushs me

proud

(once was it mine):

within the decline

of my knee,

“flee!”

Achill

yelled at me

(up from his

tendon?); –

 

He was

my will;

now, he’s

my cross;

he is

my loss, –

the fall

from my hill.

 

Since then

I fell,

I

burst

into splinters:

through –

all of my

winters

they drove

their rallye

– ignoring

my scream –

down

in the valley.

 

Thither,

where

my old boats

steam;

there where…

my precious

– lies in ashes.

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