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.

reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle

On the cusp. [Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise Part 3]

Some stories need to be told.
I’m not saying this has to be an ode…but you need to recognise the path we are on.

We were miles away, deep in to something bleak and unforsaken.

Such strides have been made, objectives surpassed, promises fulfilled.
We must be close now, surely?

I have nothing beautiful to offer.
But, my honesty and truth? It will have to suffice.

When we get there, if we get there
You’ll understand how worthy this will be.

I’ve made too many sacrifices in the name of my own delusions.

But the world we’re approaching, it will give us our honour, integrity and purpose.

We can reclaim what is owed to us only if we have the courage to seize it.

For opportune moments are only grasped by the righteous.

But wait, hah! I’m getting ahead of myself. Woe betide, we will self-destruct if we follow these traits.

We have belittled ourselves for too long. Believed in a transformation that arises only out of luck and leisure.

But this path that we stride on, relies not on hopeless devotion or desperate pleas.

For when we arrive on that evergreen hill and the gateway beckons us in, we will be released from this world of resentment and recklessness.

From a world that prizes it’s destruction as something pure and organic.

“Here he goes again”, they say, “chasing falsehoods and foolish dreams”.

But I did not squirm my way through the Lancastrian workhouses to tell you this. Nor did I swim through the murky Celtic seas to face your scorn.

For when my journey is finished, we may not have our truth.

An alternative will be offered, with a chance to return to our youth.

We’ve all seen our reflection, but none of us know what we look like.

Could we right our wrongs and restart our failed chapters?

Or will my path end like all the others, in a dark but final rapture.

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.

Ossídio Gaspar

2 short works on moving away

About those I look like

I am on occasion the occasion

A water despite the ocean

That weathers on the face

And speaks only whence the ocean.


An ocean within the ocean on the ocean

When I name I speak louder than the sound of my name

I speak it on my own

How only everyone else knows it.


I speak to myself about those who know

And then I speak to them in the morning

As the sun dawns outside what was clearly yesterday

On the evening of a face on a face again.



On the hypothesis of knowing a place

I may be closer to thinking than could thinking get me any closer to where I am.

I may be closer to where I last thought than to when I last thought I would be here.

Ossídio Gaspar

I do not know how to find you

No intentions in the meantime

My point of view is exploded by you, in the distance

The way I am thinking of you is going to teach me about thinking itself

You are everywhere


I am all over the place

I time the timing of the longer and shorter distances

I read that time in the hope of seeing some new intention

Since I cannot mean, I hope that you will end


I am closer again when you are slightly nearer than that

I am always going too far

I am switched between states of differently abled existing

Meantime you, teaches me something about existence


There are no intentions

I am left to look after you when you are not there

I try to look after what you have just seen

And therefore I cannot agree with myself


I cannot agree with the separations

They would somehow have to agree with themselves

So I cannot but think about the difference between thought and hope

Trying to predict it, by talking about you


And then by talking to you

Having already gone too far

With the one unbroken intention

To never stop talking to you.

reecenerdify, Uncategorized

The Courts from Above Ground

Can you hear the Jury grumbling as they take their seats?

The Judge cracks open the session with his bulletined order of events.


Like a tombstone of structured emotion, the prosecution states their case with a cackle of arrogance and bitter assumption.

“We are defending “the liberty of love” beckons the defence, but the patronising scoffs of despair and horror are normalised in this world of systematic tabling.


But I….feel nice here.

In my pot of soil.

On my patch of mud.


Withdrawn from production line patriotism,

And isolated from the sounds of their rules,

their reasons,

their judgements.


This pot gives me plenty of space to run,

I can feel its walls, but I can see freedom in the darkness.

And the silence echoes with a special…

“Thump, Thump”. Order! Order!

This striking sound of ‘justice’ deafens my minds(s).

One fails to recuperate such tranquil thoughts with the murmurs of an enlightened mob above them.


I do not infringe upon others movements,

The thought of asserting my morality gives me no amusement.

I have not relinquished my citizenship for a hovel of an existence.

But simply rekindled my sovereignty so that I could have independence.


I can hear the defendant interrogated and accused of a love based on guilt.

As if the prosecutor understands.. ,

Oh what castle of lies they have all built!


You see, in these worlds, grands delusions reign supreme.

Call whatever Witness to the stand.

They will testify to their own hypocrisy.

Offering perceptions born out of the fog and mist.


But in my dwelling, I provide no blurred convictions.

The love I hold, is not hollow but honest.

I am not swayed by unrelenting passions.

No bleakness can consume me,

because I have freed myself from my own harsh reality.


However, it seems that sentences must be carried out.

Children must be punished.

And yes, we must learn from our mistakes.

People need to have regrets,

and so we must control our own heartbreaks.


Though I live for the eternal, I can not forsake my liberty.

For my truth is powerful because it can shift.

It sustains my wriggle room in a life that constricts.


So when the jury makes their call, I will cackle in my chair.

For the courts can’t influence me, and their verdict is insincere.

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