The Judge-Penitent


I’m writing because I have nowhere else to go,

My chest moves but the air won’t get out of me

And I’m heavy, getting heavier, steadily sinking into feeling,

Sinking like a stone,

The presence of the present is pressing, overwhelming,

There’s no place like home,

No place to go.

I had a dream I was a child again, school was closing,

All the parents trickled by, smiling, little hands clasped tightly,

One by one they go, until –


I wake up and I’m alone

The Judge-Penitent

Brewed in the Brewhouse

Copper glory,

Insufficient and adrift,

All my dreams are boring,

And marked by thrift.


This is the signal of the song:

Crippled but unconvincing

In the tooth cruel and long,

But ultimately remitting.


Ob-Cured, with dribbled leering

and ribbed, discoloured dreaming

so it begins, the undisclosed descent

of rudimentary spring cleaning.


The scum, like on teeth a cancer grows,

Alt-drowning disfiguring, de-clothed,


A – gasp, and, ungrasped the living go,

but not undone, nor comforted

by unsolicited cream clothes.


Oh come on.

The Judge-Penitent

Manic Intoxication

Concurrent with the sound of an Ass-Clown,

this is the drum beat of my creme-de-le-crown,

It’s my au pair with dramatic lounge wear

Written over the unspeakable chowDARE,

of a pea-king premier powDARE

Escape me

An Eschatological prayer beat

Of reanimated reconstructed bear meat.

Open up the reconfigure, my what du make it,

Whats the De Jure,

Whats it all for?

No idea but keep singing,

Ke/ep the risk of the hoping,

Homing in on a pure disturple,

disturbing dystopian purple.

Thats the homing bee,

the open cumin creeper of Q T

How long I’ve waited for thee.

And only,

not really, but lonely,

I’m the only,

What an upset, hurdle, bring on the girdle, long round the open court,

I am s season beyond reason and what works,

Now no longer able to see, bringing the ocean

The over, the open decision still waiting to be, waiting for it all

to wash onto, what has and had not been. it is is , Il y a na pas, no idea what i’m trending toward being,

have i said enough,

have i continued to disagree, both with myself, the past, all and the once and future king,

Bring it back to the dirt, you are forgiven, this is the end of my speaking killing spree,


Addendum be me.


The Judge-Penitent

The Night Ceaselessly Bends

Again, I am at that Other-than-the-end,

That mind-pressed point where the night ceaselessly bends

Away, and with an edged eye and many-turnings I keep

My watch, not a sentinel but a deserter from the enclosure of sleep.

Rest, cannot be possessed by man, cannot be won; every discomfort

And disruption is a prize clutched back from the walls of oblivion,

For like the mad, searching through the ignorant for the wise have eyes only for themselves, forever young,

So too I know not why I press a thousand moments against one;

Blowing the rain back into clouds, alone but wanting to speak aloud, pulling the roots back to a seed, as passions run aground as deeds;

so finally, dreams are to stone undone,

And dissolving, I am gone.


The Judge-Penitent

He Abandons Writing for more Wine

Acid-Heads talk about Ego-Death,

But I’m more comfortable with oblivion.

So let the shade descend on my narrow bed,

And the lonely place I’m living in.

Names are for nobodies who crave recognition,

Opinions are for statues that are fond of their position,

Sophistication is for poems that are not written whilst one is drunk,

And Rhyming is the predilection of those who still give a fuck.

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.

The Judge-Penitent

There is a Yearning

Please, let there be a moment,

When the heavens spread out their open arms

over a valley of sculpted white divine,

shadowed by an amber sky;

Let there be a time,

When my joy is innervated through my body,

and it sings in harmony with the world,

accompanied by a chorus of light;

Let the wings of my love be unfurled,

in front of hearts and eyes flung open,

outside of every burden;

Only, let this happen,

For there is a yearning,

A something it is to be alive,

And though, I know, this cannot last forever,

Please, let it last

only a little longer.

Let me have this time.

The Judge-Penitent

Writing Is Still a Traumatic Love/Death Expression

I’ve got old sins: the kind you’re born with,
Pores without the skin, where black feelings go in,
And ugliness remains, sticking it all together.
I’m a real romantic it seems, still in love with
Girls I don’t know,
And don’t speak to,
Shrugging off ones I’ve slept with,
And couldn’t care less for,
What a hero!
At the end of my life,
Which is a holiday I’ve been planning
For a good decade, or maybe two,
I’d love to tell you that I’ve been joking,
Which is only partly true,
Partly I’ve been laughing at the idea of being alive,
And at not being a tar-pit of gloom, much as it suits me.
Just like the box in my mind marked “abyss”,
My love is a Platonic Ideal I’ve contemplated,
Into a this,
A poetic disease,
A sentimental smell of rancour,
The kind of good health that only lepers long for.
My love is an open sewer,
Pouring out over the streets,
Of my friends and the people that tolerate me,
I’m not quite sure that they’re distinct.
Yes, now you ask, I am tired of living in sin;
But it persists, what else could I say?
I would rather wash off the stink of confession,
But, to me, writing is still a traumatic Love/Death expression

The Judge-Penitent

A Collection of Incomplete Longings

All my thoughts are yesterday’s,
No, let not tomorrow come,
For if you should go while I remain,
I could not face the rising sun.

I drift along autumnal seas,
Slow, never sifting to the bottom,
I am as lonely as all the trees,
That know their leaves have left them.

I keep my time by a shattered watch,
Stubborn, I live inside the jagged part,
I keep in shape with a glass of scotch,
And nightly exercise my bitter heart

One day, when my mortal shadow dies,
I’ll choose to disappear completely.
And the first moment I looked in her eyes,
Is the place that you will find me.

The Judge-Penitent

The Separation of Sleep

I dream in pursuit of the separation of sleep,
The succession of moments that yet lie indistinct,
For this is the mind’s opening, to ti esti to think,
The pathway that cradles the brink.

I move in the shape of a shadow at rest,
The standing of a stature that is too often professed,
For this is the moral calling, thou doest at thy behest,
And yet the messenger is deaf.

I speak in the staccato of a stammering tongue,
The stops in between starts, the trammels of the young,
For this is the hearts indecision, the profanity of soul,
The freedom beyond all control.

The Judge-Penitent

“I’m On Fire”

I lie awake at night, alone, and I think about you. I’m burning on the inside over you, and it won’t end. I think about all the things I want to say to you, but there’s no point to it. There’s just no damn end to it.
And I turn and I turn, but I can’t get away from you. I lie in cool sheets, just searing a big damn hole over you, like I’m having a bad dream and I can’t get out and I can’t sleep. And it wouldn’t matter if you were a hundred miles away or pressed against me, because it’s never been about you, your just beautiful and precious enough to miss you like you should of been mine. But I don’t want you to be here with me. I’m as alone as the first day I met you, and I made sure to keep it that way, because I’m a black hole, deep down, and I don’t want to suck you in. So I keep trying to turn away from you, waiting for you to leave, but I still know its just me, pulling you in. And it’s hot as hell, being so empty inside, just thinking, and thinking, and thinking; always falling in……