Frank Hammersith

To all cunts

I will now write about the Cunt.

As it is. The Cunt is You.

You are the Cunt.

I am disgusted by You.

You know no love.

You were born to be in your own void.

You are the Emperor of nothingness.

you are no one.

You are pathetic. Pathetic of pathos.

The love you receive is transformed by you into pity. Because you spoil everything precious.

That is how much cunt You are. Cockroach of the Castle.

You produce cuntness. It gets to me. I have no mercy for your elevated so called intellectual suicide.

You are just self-masturbating shit.

You are the Sea forever now.

Sea of the Cunt.

You are the perfect Cunt for me.

I want to cum from disgust. I will cum You Cunt. Pathetic cunt as my better world that was never a real world.

You act as a catalyst. The Cunt Brother. Perfect citizen of my City.

read the above out loud to me

feed me with your failure.



Ossídio Gaspar

Do not look at me when this is how I see myself

I am the emperor. I look down on those who look up at me.

I am the void. They stare into nothingness and yet cannot see it.

I look away. They go where my eyes tend and that is surely the worst of all.

It takes time to fill in the gaps of the time it takes to fill in the gaps. Most of this time I do nothing. The gaps get wider and I fall deeper into their absence. They are not there, and I am left by myself confronting the result of nothing more than before, of no more than before. This is the insistence of every gap.

I cannot tolerate the days.

What do I do? I show and I tell. I give away the secrets and leave the route to redefine itself somewhere up in the cosmos – exactly where my would-be love-making has already outlived two separate periods of its own eternity. How am I able to be so careless? This is the cosmological question.

All absences deserve to be alone. And all absences are alone.

But I cannot be by myself. That is another world still to be properly opened and relived from the start. And nothing is about to start here. I am alone because I fill and am the feeling of the gap between my Self and every Self which is not me. I falsify the experience of the difference by filling it with the thinking that knows everyone and predicts everything. I know myself perfectly and yet I am still the question. I know everyone I know and yet they are exactly every question I cannot bear.

The difference between me and self is therefore the question of what my difference has born.

Try taking me out of the lights and putting me in the Sun. The sooner the moon the more patient is the person who learnt to speak in the dark. The greater the darkness the more liberal becomes the definition of the Sun. If we cannot oppose ourselves then we oppose each other.

I actually live like this.

You do not know me. He does not know me.

On what it is you want to know I hold in my autonomy to change a verb here and a noun there. This is not an authority – in fact, it is the opposite. As soon said, soon been changed. A perception does not make me stay still. You perceiving me still is you knowing how to forget me as something which receives itself only within every future moment.

But this is my fault for I am easily cancelled. Easily re-moved.

The emperor. The sign.

If a notion of the world could be in the world then how could the world be in that notion? To play god without assuming the name as such. To name a god without assuming the freedom of contradiction as such. Tell it like it is and call me a cunt.

I do not tolerate my days.

I day a day to day a day. They finally look away and I become motionless. I leave one too many thoughts on the last expedition to the cosmic distance of my self-authored non-existing. I am not the emperor, I never looked away. I caught a perception of myself in the things they never said and found my way to hearing the voice with which I had been speaking before.

It was an echo of the word Cunt.

Ossídio Gaspar

How it gets Worse

Today it is an uneasiness.

Yesterday, misery.

A year again,

Today, again.


If I did not spend my days thinking

Of a world in which masturbation

Would be an authentic use of time

I would waste them



For at least one day every day,

I lose it.

For the sake of meaning

I cannot sunbathe.


I am the animal.

I evolve if the context cannot.

The world stops me

If it decides to go again.


All around me

I am surrounded

By me


Fallen into straight lines

Of unusable decay.

I am not even pretentious.


Today, it is easy

Yesterday was either better or worse

But the year is not a mistake

And a day today cannot make up for last year

So it is that much worse.

Ossídio Gaspar

Ignore what I say to you when I do not know who I am. In such an instance, I obviously expect you to know who I am.

Because I only see you sometimes and then I have to hope that you might see me just as often

I bespoke my lead

Let it sail

I let you

But floating

Does not adventure


This destination

I set

It failed

The same water

This self-erasure


You are let out

To know

If forgot

I would have



And there

We are

Not animals


Lots of it




Then neither




You are the only person worth lying to (a very much in between poem, otherwise afraid of what there is to say; and Being about that)

I prefer to keep everything still

Because I am still to learn what it was


I look back in two directions

Just as neither knows anything about the other

The gaze abandons me and follows whatever.

My bad days cannot register a bad day.


I am not betrayed

I am left alone


And then every again you have to turn out

For a popularity of two, If two

Which it never is, It is a

Population of a more perfect timing

The way I am not left, even if alone.


World of difference made by a bad idea.

Not a world I want,

but the distance of that world not being.


I might as well fall in love first

And then deny the point

Of doing that.


With that said and never done

I might look back and tell myself what was

With that worst day voice

Always preferred with speeches about what is not

Likened to the sound of everything turning back in


After going around

After doing that

Mightening all is well

And nothing is.


The Breakdown (this one is not bigger than it is; I cannot do that: proof of this inability follows in the writing)

If something is the case, then it has to be the case.

If I am alone, I will await the timing of the contradiction.

If I were to explain my language word by word, I would not have to.

If I had looked at you only, I would not have been caught in my reaction to you.

If you are there, I am here.

If we are both somewhere, I will not measure the distance.

If you should cross the distance anyway, I would sit in the sand instead.

If I had had to tell an anterior lie, I would have leaped without a problem.

If the water and continent are set, then so is the beach.

If I am there, I will sit in the sand.

If you were there, I would swim out and count the waves by oceans travelled.

If, all that time ago, it had been any other way, I would have spoken to the sun and made it more perfect.

But if it is, then it is.

And if I am alone, then I will not tell the lies that I do not have to.

If I was to think all the time, and I do, I would be wrong most of the time.

If I had ever really been there, and not just now here, I would have made the exceptions to prevent any other beach from taking place.

And yet it is not, so it is not.

I am not there, and I will not remake the ocean.

It was never here, so I would not now retrace the coast.

And yet perhaps it had had to be here before it would have ever been in the distance: but I have never been able to think that far ahead, despite myself, despite the time I have instead to think about the language that could speak for itself.

Ossídio Gaspar

The Conversation

I was someone who would have been. I am only someone who has not yet been told. There is only a point to someone who still wants to make sense. Do not tell me that I make sense.

The banality and the estrangement take it in turns.

The jokes I have left in the air tell a story about indecision. But they reveal a history more intentional than I will have ever been.

Only history makes sense. This is the decision and the history of its history.

This is why I am more of a writer than the people I write about. I cannot help it.

I cannot help these people. Broken ontologies do not moralise a proper relationship to the world. Every ontology is its own person, after all.

My Justice has already listened to too many voices to find the right way back to the right one.

My insights hinder sight. I keep looking at things that I never looked for.

I am an obstruction of justice inasmuch as I cannot make sense and I cannot hold a single belief for long enough to appeal against its misuse. And I believe in this unfinishable distance, I believe in the time it takes for the time being of the incomplete being of time. Because, every now and then, I do say what is obvious to me.

When I say this, I talk about Justice. This restarts the whole point. And I am someone else.

And I ask everyone else to change, and I say nothing to make this happen. Instead, I listen until I forget and I remember until I listen.

And then history is not over. People are not done. And all the voices have to listen to themselves again because they are hearing things for the first time. That is, if I really do not make sense.

And the writer is the last person of all. Someone outside the time it takes to make the mind up, someone who is always about to be remembered, someone to be blamed for the names, wrong as they are, which have happened out of nowhere but with not the time to be disproved before ultimately being disproved.

Writing is also the unknown that oftentimes forgets meaning. Its opposite or the time it takes to be opposed.

I am someone before a crisis, then the crisis of someone when I am in a crisis. I cannot be criticised by myself, because I am always criticising someone else. And I cannot criticise myself, because I am always the one criticising myself. There is no way to get out of myself and there is no way to really get in to myself.

I am the same people I fail to do Justice to. I am the same doubt of being one of them as I doubt that they are one of themselves, even if they tell me who they are, even if I am told that I make sense.

But I have to hate myself most of all because it may be that only I do not know thyself. That I have decided that I am two people and therefore simply not enough.

And still it is when I do not tell people; I know the difference and I know them.

I am not sure whether anyone has ever told me this. Or if I would have ever been the person to tell me this if I were the person to be this. But this happens to be a distance which some history will have yet to find the appropriate joke for; and, until such a time, the indecision might be enough of a history in itself to upset everyone.


Journey to the Infinite.

Frosted confusion.

A promise of a revolution.

My pursuit begins in this forest.

My enchanted path resides with those who are purist.


The depth of these nights.

Full of austere patience.

Resenting the spirit.

Retaining the hope.

Withholding the haste.


They Say Rome was not built in a day.

But that portal is….is beyond our creativity.

I’ve seen Architects pause and ponder.

Watched Engineers argue over such a wonder.

And the Physicists? Well this is their realm, but of an entirely different matter.


This century of progress has sewn the seeds of distrust.

Evicting , so we can build.

Killing, so we can expand.

Polluting, so we can shine.

Starved, so we can grow.


But heck, Dickens cant save our destiny.

Our prophecy resides in a world that can’t flinch from its broken glory.

The Portal shows that our failure is preordained.

But I must seek a way to fight our fate; to thrust ourselves from this puddle of doom.


We will not survive a world of bitter republics and shattered nations.

Where skeletal chrome towers are worshipped instead of congregations.

When, sovereignty means ‘Mine’!

And the collective doesn’t shine.

Nobody can sit here and tell me that this future is God’s design.


This portal offers grand omniscience.

Chronicling our mortality.

Revealing our third eye.

And with this blessed vision,

we can foresee our dark inhibitions.


So with this rusty Claymore and my leather satchel,

I will crush that window of modernity, that promises a world of peril.


The circus floats from Dublin to London,

Like a snowflake swimming amongst the air.

Searching for its white froth.

But eventually, all must melt.

Its intricate beauty shall not be allowed to disturb the minds of good men.

Its rotten purveyor will be seized, exposed and caged.


Our future?


My Purpose?


Ossídio Gaspar

To think

Think about me lying on the water. A horizon before the horizon. One in the rain.

Think about the water between me and the water. How I might sweat. Held in a dampness not a river instead.

Think of something straying two full winds from the side of the beach. Not taking in the tides that take me out, Think about how such a river might land between two people.

Think about the size of the ocean in those waters. Think about the first and third person. How the moon cannot spread me as the sun keeps me the same.

Think how I could have been one of the first sailors. And the very first scientist, Knowing nothing but the end of the world.

Ossídio Gaspar

How to talk about someone’s eyes?

I am on the windowsill

I am on the withdrawal

I am in the kettle


One. Hurt no one.

Two. Do not let anyone hurt me.

Three. Hurt myself.


I am kilos to the art of being dark


Four. Travel north.

Five. Remember south.

Six, seven, eight nine and ten.


Threshold of self to the east

How to revolt against Being in Being in Love

What do you do when no one is watching you?


11 days in the west


But tonight I had to save the world.


Ossídio Gaspar

sixteenth of february, twenty-second of february, third of march

16-02-I am not yet thinking about this

I remove the third person as I speak to myself.

My limited point of view has to have a therefore honesty.


But then the only Question left is,

What sort of third person do I want to be?

I know the one I like and the name that does not spell anything else. Whatever existential that is this one in oneself. One for one all, that with nothing and I know that. The name I give in and should not have to come back. Popular religion but in the sacrificial repetition of a country in mind. The world outside the idea of the person who does not count up to my name, but is the count I take home. Inside and outside this numeral: one before and after one. The single limit to repeat some thing again.


I populate simply because I have no aesthetic.


16-2-I am Florid

I put sand on the floor.

Stay alive.

Caution with an ocean and clear my throat.

I obviously know what I am not to do.

Crystals for eyes and ice for I’s.

We live for no one.

Go, soon.

I am healed.

As you are no one.


Thinking out loud is yes to the world.

Having already been so soon.

Never gone, always here.

Because of your not-you

I cannot think erotically without touching myself.


There is no abstraction to my point, it is about reducing the moment to a state of emptiness.

Unused skin fallen on the floors of the season.

No time to flourish.

I stay alive.

And nothing comes of it.


twenty-second of february

You gave me a name

I took a name

And that was 1.

I was a kite.

I am the Y axis of good evil.

I put black pepper in my white rice.

Think about me on the window

Think about me on the sea

Water does not fill an ocean.

White rice does not go into black pepper.

I have a mood.

I am in a mood.

I do a mood.

Honesty is an autonomy.

Communication more or less believes in communication.

I give up my light.

Pink and red on the inside.

The share of flowers in brackets.


I went outside


(the past could have happened today)

Union is by chance

I am disintegrated by influence.

This makes sense.


Over-bitten finger-nail’s blood barely scratching the surface.








for more hours than I could have possibly lived alone.

I am into games of multiplication without the law.

I waste a day to wait for a day.

I day a day to day a day.

My face is only an unfurthered decoration.


I sparkle sparkle.

Sogging in hair air.

With a caveman headache.

Grown for a year

Spread over a decade.

Being and not Being well-known for its time.

(a joke about a capital)


third of march

I am a knight

I am a night

I am on my way

I am there.

Fuck with my horse

Fuck with my house

Hose me

That chose me


I am almost a person.

I want

That needs

Most of all.

Ossídio Gaspar

Document (20)1(8)

I welcome myself to the world. So I should be taken out of context.

Eye to eye and the I to I barrier. The unshared maternalism of the difference.

I hospitable.

The self cannot be hospitalised.

Cannot care for what is not in itself to exist.

Think about Me when you want to spoil the Sex. I do the same and I confirm efficacity.

Can we admit self-hatred to political discourse? Who are we really about?

We doodle our politics from pretend attention.

Where is the scene?

It is now a kindness to admit to not caring.

Mistakes are confessions to non-suitability.

I am not the agent.

Sex Politics.

This is not an evaluation.

An unevaluated thing cannot evaluate. An unevaluated thing is only ever evaluating.

A person is still to be a person, just like a face is still to be put together.

The old language cannot speak about the sign. A new language cannot speak about the sign.

But still tell me everything and the room will be there to grow.

Give me an hour and we can make a day of it. The year of that decade and the decade of that generation. We cannot spoil what is still to be by still trying to write it.

We need to be history and post-history. If two things at once, we need more people than one person. More than one historian, more than one proletarian and more than one philosopher.

A generation can only be a reflection on its own self. All other generations are not people.

Only people can be generated.

I am a people. You are a people.

A people is a person reflected.

One to two to two too again.

This is one way of putting it.

They are because of what cannot be said in one time: by us, by them, by any one.

A saying is a saying because it says enough to not say not enough. Words of encouragement.

All politics, please. For, all politics to please.

Pleasant and not pleasant, conversation is not being a conversation. I am not talking to anyone. I to I and eye to eye – whereas now these never meant anything. There is no one to talk to anymore.

I hospitable. I only welcome myself to the world. And I oversleep.

I must redefine the border. Where transgression is a country in its own right. Where people not being people are more interesting than those who say they are.

I usually say for the not being said. Now I have to say for those who are said most of all.

Doodle as I listen, to pay attention to the minutes of the non-hour, as if being able to speak to someone is to be able to interject with their own para-lingual signs. But the sign is not up for discussion, just like a mother cannot be transmitted.

Doodle the doodle. Now this has to be “not paying any attention at all”.

Still, this is only a welcoming message. And I only really welcome myself to the world.

I still say that the war of the self is not sufficiently reflected and self-reflected in the political ex-change.

With so much difference, it is impossible to see it where it is still happening. We are lost in the myriad of great expression and minimised indifference.

To know difference is to be able to know the event of indifference.

We cannot change a whole people in a person.

A person is still going to be a person, an I to I in its own way, and never really owned in any way: welcomed to a world it is just about to put its full attention to.

A promise, like welcoming someone to something that is still not quite here. Like welcoming someone to a people who will never be here.

Ossídio Gaspar

I splice together the days of the sun

In my kingdom

There has never been a greyer shade than the sun


In my kingdom

I take scissors to the clouds

Dark is blue, blue is as dark as it gets


Sunsets coincide with sunrises

A new sun replaces the old sun

A million stars for a million days

There is no such day as not-a-day


My kingdom is eternal

Because it does not exist like the non-eternal things

It exists only sometimes

And it exists forever


My kingdom coincides with me

The way I wrote it

Under the sun


My kingdom is a coincidence

Of the way it is written

Always clear


Where a day is not as long as a day

And the king oversleeps

And I cannot overstay.

Ossídio Gaspar


Movement is a post-reform honesty

Pre-dating movement to this cannot not be dishonest

Now, am I surprised?


This is the capital of the country that will never be

A borderless cunt

The limit of everyone coming from the same place

Where half come again

And half come back to,

And everyone else comes closest to.


I am a cunt’s obsession with cunt

A sea between the ocean and the border

A yes and no before and after a yes and no

The season in a weather adrift

Weathering the season not whethering

And I want to be concerned with happiness

But my horizon is tumoured with an unstable growth.


I do not self-realise

I put up my own distance

A tension with the end out of sight

A sensation with the undone of the unseen

Repeating the time it takes to do it again.


I always make a rare mistake when I go home

Time travel what was said.

Collapsed somewhere between the newest and oldest state of mind

Must be a better cunt than the one I am

And yet, we are only moving

Names like step-making an unbroken border.

We need a C


Unfinishable and open

Moving around incompletely

A lie without a hypocrisy

Come again and again and again

Inheriting everything in Sexless repetition

The water of water

And closed with no end

So open and unfinished again

It has to come again.


Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt


reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle, Uncategorized

The Delinquent’s Dance

The gathering has begun.

A ceremony of delightful beasts.

The crimson sunshine once elevated our heart.

But now a thick smog suffocates the peace.


As the traffic lights flicker from scarlet to amber,

You wait for an end to this awful slumber.

Trench lines of scorched Fords with many charred Hondas,

A blistering inferno awaits us, as the demons cackle with their cameras.


The climatic froth simmers towards the surface.

The sewers crust over with such acidic purpose.

This arena has been sealed with our hawkish volition.

A bystanders curse, apathy’s very own admission.


The conjoining of the red sea floods this principled vessel,

As they channel the anger inside, a great tunnelling begins to nestle.

Starved of tranquillity, we’ve consumed our grim fairy tale.

Blamed for playing the victim, their path of villainy is destined to fail.


As the crescendo alights, a mesh of colors fills the air,

Black Eagles and Rainbows descend above us,

Symbols of past and present, giving us that ferocious flair.


To spectate doesn’t simply vindicate.

But with the remnants of reason cowering in the corner,

Our descent to savagery grows ever closer.


Gone is the soapbox with openhearted minds.

We have a new audience of a more evasive kind.

Happy to watch the darkness devour us from within,

“Just in time for tea”, we say. Its the 7pm bulletin.


Jungle, parliament or rally. Barbarity is omnipresent.

The element of protest has vanished.

Their passion for disruption is anything but pleasant.


The guttural sounds of hate boom from this tattered stage.

This war for our minds…was it first fought on the page?

Like puppets on a string, ‘like freaks on a leash’,

We now dance to our own apocalypse, all logic has ceased.


Once the tingly tears have cleared the horde,

And the road has been choked of all hope.

Onlookers cry for more blood.

The search for reason has become a joke.


This spectacle alienates our heart.

Makes fools of humanity.

So the answer is to be further apart?

Now that is insanity.


Ossídio Gaspar

A new selection of half-made work


It was called a body when I last used it.
A country was still a form when it was last needed.
I cannot repeat and be playful at the same time.
There is no axiology to a river ending in more water.

This is not the same as before,
Word for word there is no continuity.
Force me into secrets by asking me nothing
I keep the world alive by searching for it.

I will hop a continent to change the distance
And leave you here with what I have to leave unfinished.
The necrotic residues, the unwashed Sex,
Anyway – Any moment is only our potential for death.

To a thinker a nation is but an Idea
But – My patriotism is forever unfounded
So – I cannot believe in the people
Since – I do not believe that a person is a person.

Ask me anything, and let the time go by
Send the boats out, send them from where the water begins
And then let that time go by, and turn on me
Tell me that a river is a river and that I am lost.

My search is that search turned inside out
The last one to speak with me is the soonest authority on me
I do not know myself, I do not know thyself
When I dream, a body is not going to be a body.

But my silence is forgotten and my ideas give way
A season a year, for a year every year
Their body is not my body, and I can really say:
There is now an X where a country used to be.


Where I have gone

I dream of four pillars lying horizontally on the sand.
I dream of the water, I dream of flattened cliffs.
I dream that there is no difference between the ocean and the continent.
I dream of the author who could realise this picture.
I dream of the dream able to show this picture.
I dream of a day after, a day after a dream.
I dream that I do not dream; I dream the reality.
I dream that within a dream there are dreams left.
I dream of what it is to be awake, lying in four ways on one beach.
I dream that there is no more waking up, of a light that will never sleep.
I dream all this on the coast of my dreams, sailing away.

I dream of four pillars lying horizontally on the sand.
I dream of the beach that controls my fascination for them.



I have no doctrines; a performance is a walk with no real destination
Where I have waited, I will now be forever
– whatever I am next, I was never there;
no leftovers, but entire cancellations.
I have waited, I have wasted. Putting it together has no feeling.

Head in the water, so hands overhead for the sea breeze
Echo of a distance never making itself clear; but in time, memory shall have it
to not remember itself and then really know that distance
of going far but having to stay in the same place to notice it.

I have noticed the loneliness of staying away
I have noticed the emptiness of going nowhere
These two things are the same; so all this time…
Where have I been?


On Excellence

I was not meant and I was not going to be.
I was not there, I was being seen to.
It was going to be, if I was going to be.
For that, it took looking back to.
There, I was, but then I also was before that.
And twice, for each of those two times, I was going to.
So it was going to be seen that I was and I was not.
I stopped, not being, to be what that would not be.

I looked away from the point of it,
to point but not point at it,
to not be the point of it,
but still point at me.

Ossídio Gaspar

A Guilty Party

I refrain from big thought because larger-than-life is the first corruption of ontology.

In the refrain, which is the incidental repetition of an unfinished thought, I sing.

Laughter and dance are ostracised for being too serious for the moment.

I am party to the pre-set exculpation for the retaliation, and the music has to be precise.

I disinvited all those who are participants by condition of being, so that they would definitely show up to me, unbeknownst to the real nakedness their costumes attained in this uninformed light.

No speech.

The song does not create change. The centre is for a post-administration emphasis.

The centre is for my attention, only.

It is then that the largest life crosses over and turns the first lights off. No one has left.

It is then that the second lights modify the uncrossed expectations and everyone has to leave.

A new group enters mostly unnoticed to the reduced shading of the last group which is probably not thinking about anything anymore.

My first big thought causes me to refrain and by now the song has probably changed. Suddenly, I am the centre of my own attention and the guilt of my past self overcomes me with a question.

A larger-than-life surprise undresses the scene and forgets to remind me of who I was before the corruption. Exculpation for the retaliation is no longer my good thought.

Everybody laughs and I start making a speech about the classics.

I know nothing about the classics. I am consumed by the changed lights and I realise that I cannot feel my teeth. This is when a third group invites themselves in before I can say yes, but I am about to say yes anyway and make an ontological point of how unfinished and unprepared all of this is.

I try to dance, but I fall over and everybody laughs.

The language seems accurate and again I forget where we are. I swear we have just collapsed three life sentences in two blinks of an eye.

Finally, the disinvited on condition of being-always-already-participants surround me and applaud my intentions. They know me. My speech drew the attention I seem to have wanted when I gave the centre away. Like clockwork, all the parts form a well-timed whole and at the end of it… I am giving out my own defence. I am tried for procurement.

Now there is no way out, there are no characteristic changes for fun or example, and the big thoughts are the only thing left and I send them onto the floor one by one, smashing what I had before been thinking to be long-held and well-established principles of refrain.

But a croaky voice cannot sing.

My outside view seems to have taken me from within. What music there was has died three persons ago. Three life sentences later, I am waiting for the refrain to spell out the corruption. The big thoughts have overwhelmed me, I am alone, I have participated on condition of being. At first I spoke not enough, and then I spoke too long on a classical issue for which I had no thoughts, big or small.

The shades of difference between these two events – emphasised by the dance and laughter which go on between the between – are something I cannot account for.

The centre of attention has left all hope of leaving me.

The incident becomes an accident of itself or of how I thought the ontology would be preserved.