Antxnia

Wake

Every day, it wakes

It feels, it waits, it expects

Every day, it wakes

Forced from sweet slumber

Seize the day! Make it yours! Make it count!

Yet every day, it wakes

It knows that it too, must survive today

Blinding sun, or its reflection on grey clouds

Movement, sound, sensation

And flickers of hope

It must survive it all

So every. single. day. it wakes.

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Antxnia

Lead

We were always just humans,

though I thought us above such

animalistic realities.

 

We got lost and

had been – for the longest time –

I thought you were taking me

past the bright lights

and civilised city.

 

We waded into the depths

of the greatest emotions,

then you wanted me to let go

and let you drown.

 

We separated as

your grip loosened,

but I was the one with lead tied around my leg.

 

We were separated

by raging waves,

with blood so hot it made

every wor(l)d burn.

 

We panicked and

as I searched for your figure,

a fear so feral that nothing could get close,

stole you from me.

 

We surfaced, one after the other,

two worlds shaken after the collision.

 

Our orbits shifting and feeble attempts to float against the gravity, failing.

 

Our perceptions and affections altered, time so precious and too long.

 

Our days on one planet were centuries on others.

 

Our knowledge became our ruin, as rewarding as the lies that become truths.

 

Our vision blurred, but I swore you were blinder than me.

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Antxnia

No bueno.

​Dragged into the shadow-covered brightness,

Memory fails to remind us that 

this:

Is not our destiny.


Consumed by fear of abandonment

And drained of adventurous spirit,

This version of us freezes (and hardens)

Pissed-off at the very core.

Denying what’s what and where’s here

Desiring to be anywhere,

anything but

There.


This path

Twisted, perilous and deluded as it may seem

Has brothers and sisters of varying levels of success

That will, if permitted,

Foster a certain type of understanding

That only a sibling can reveal.


-Fire

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And so it went...

When you know that the simplest description is the one you don’t think about

If only this ringing which surrounds me and cuts through the sky like lightning and pain and all things which we fear not just because of their reality, but also because of their speed, would slow and clear and know that if only they slowed, we would fear them so much less, because such things move quickly enough for us to know they are not within our control. But it cuts so deep. I tremble with tears balancing by my eyelids and quivering, as I quiver too, and place a test upon the capability of my muscles to tremble also, and I grit my teeth as I tremble with an anger which is more sad to look at than to fear – it’s not something we should fear at all, apart from the sobering fact that it could be felt in us one day.

I stop gritting my teeth though, and exhale, and look around so lost and sad and I don’t know what I see, how can I? And I cry though, still – how can we not? It’s so easy and it spins us into such a delirium and we forget about all things, even the things we were crying about in the first place.

I feel I know Pain, I see him so often now. He walks alongside me, sometimes ever so gently that I mistaken him for someone else, and at these times I let him know my thoughts. He uses this information like a poisoner seeking to know that element which would work to greatest effect, and oh what an effect he uses the things I tell him. I must be partly to blame then? Aren’t we all? But if ever I see the world and see that it beats so violently with happiness and passion and so much love, then I know that I can live an existence alongside Pain for however long Love asks me to, because it’s all a plan, really – not ever devised by us, but we’ll do, with respects to our parts played in its actualisation that is.

But those muscles which did so well in helping my erupting heart to shake my world, now seem tired with life too, and they let my world collapse on the floor alongside my poor mind which seems to be just by itself down on the concrete, among the dust and the smaller stones which get stuck in the cracks of the floor. But all of me – apart from that part which you hold – all that remains of me, I suppose it’s not much, is now so exhausted and tired and just lies there on the floor. And I feel so sad looking down over myself, that unfortunate being, who is ever so fragile and more so than one would think by just looking. Because inside that head there is a conscious mind fully aware of the tragedy which it is playing a part in. It’s okay, I wish to say, but it’s me already I am speaking to, and I look down upon myself anyway, and I know that it’s okay; but knowing a reality, and realising what it means for you, are two very different things.

Maybe with time? (Exhale)

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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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And so it went...

The simple things, like a smile from a tired train attendant

‘Excuse me?’

Bump.

‘Excuse me, sir? Sir, can you wake up please?’

Bump.

‘Sir? Excuse me?’

Bump. Clap. Okay I’m up.

‘Ahh hello sir, nice of you to join us. May I see your ticket please?’

‘Erm, yes, yes here it is.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘How’s your evening been then? Waking, checking, waking, checking? That kind of thing?’

‘Somewhat like that, sir.’

Wow this has guy has a commitment to the role. All I was looking for was some neat, quick-fire conversation, a story perhaps? Nope- nada.

The buildings we pass by seem more modern now, we must be nearing the city.  There’s a bright glow up ahead of in the direction we’re going; we’re near.

‘All in order chief?’

‘Yes sir, all good. Have a nice evening.’

‘You too pal, take care of yourself.’

I like’d him, he did stay true to character as I said but he did it with a humble nature which is rare these days and I at least, even if I’m on my own with this, respect that- so I did mean it when I told him to take care you see. He carried on his route down the carriage and I see we’re not far from central so I get up and go to the opposite end of said carriage to collect my pack which I left on the luggage rack.

Out the window I see it looks kind of cloudy so I take out my nice woollen jacket with the fur hood- it’s not real fur but it definitely makes me feel as though I’m protected by the warmth of some kind of wild, ever so wild, wolf which has been hardened by all the years of keeping after itself in the bitterness of the wilderness in the arctic tundra or somewhere- or I imagine it’s the fur of some bold and almighty brown bear which wanders kingly and strong through the magnificent thick expanse of Canadian woodland. Anyway, it’s a good jacket and I’ve become rather fond of it, so I and the jacket bind and become one entity in the perceptive eyes of those whom we see and encounter and already I feel like it’s going to be a good night.

The straps on my pack look kind of worn and old as if they’ve served time in some kind of jungle of sorts, but really they’re warn because I think I’ve had this pack about twelve years now? and it hasn’t failed me yet, nor have I managed to lose it so I hold onto the thing as it’s now somewhat sentimental.

I swing it round and onto my back, slot my arms through both shoulder straps, wriggle about a tad so it sits nicely against my back, tighten the straps so they now don’t really wriggle but instead clutch onto my chest. I button up my jacket and slide open the window to the carriage door so the wind blows in and I can exhale my cigarette smoke out of it, but first I need to pull out the packet of cigarettes to really do this properly anyway, so I do, and select one arbitrarily so not to be unfair. I place that chosen one between my lips and hold it there while its brothers and sisters, still in their packet of course, are put back into my jacket pocket to be kept safe for later. I light the thing, and ultimately I’m soon breathing in smoke which is good as I have an addiction and I’d rather it be at least cigarette smoke than nothing at all anyway.

Breathe, exhale.

Ahh, the train bounces nicely along the bumps of the track, quite rhythmically now as if the guys who laid the tacks down intended the trains to ride over them in such a manner. The guy who’s employed to announce where we’re going, when we’ll get there, and if we are indeed there yet, begins announcing that we are indeed there. ‘There’ turns out to be Central, as my better instinct told me and it’s only eight forty one apparently as well which apparently is also a good thing, as we’re four minutes early, apparently.

We swing into the station, but obviously it’s a big station as it’s Central and central stations always tend to be big because they’re so central to everything, including train tracks, so they have a lot of stuff going through them. This means that although we haven’t quite stopped yet, we have begun the ‘getting really near to’ stopping process and this is indicated, as I noted, by swinging into the station- and now I can see across all of the platforms because there aren’t many trains in for some reason, which is weird because it’s Central but I suppose all of the empty platforms is still some kind of evidence that there could be lots of trains, but it’s just that we’re too early for them or something and maybe in four minutes they’ll catch up to us?

But my eyes flick across and over all of these empty platforms who have to wait for four minutes or something before their trains come in and my eye is caught really quite suddenly by one particular part of one particular platform- there’s an engineer’s office, work office, where they would go to not work but make coffee and eat biscuits, but what they did was beside the point really as I only wanted to note that there was the office there and that’s why I remember the point as it’s by that office where I bode farewell to this pretty, most beautiful, girl I’ve ever had the privilege to converse with. Although that was a while ago now and I know a couple girls who really are much prettier than her but I’d never say that in public of course because I actually still know them and that would be weird, probably. Anyway this girl was radiance with the brightest smile, it would kill me. God I loved her, and God, I’m sure she probably dug the hell outta me at one point probably, and I tell you God although I don’t know why I tell you as apparently you know everything so I’m more telling myself but I’ll tell you anyway because sometimes a girl is pretty enough to talk to you about, even if you don’t exist I suppose? But we held one another so closely so we could feel the others’ heartbeat which was really just one beat because we were in love I think and clichés like that matter don’t they? And we were so close that as we paused from those final kisses you give someone when they stand before you and you don’t know when you’ll see them again, we would simply indulge in the others’ smell, which, as we’d spent the last few days in such close contact anyway was kind of the same smell, which wasn’t a cliché but more the truth and bit odd if you think of it a bit, but we had showered so- I suppose not that odd.

We would kiss passionately, really quite passionately, to the point where the engineers would probably have coffee biscuits and a show if they were there, but they weren’t- probably out committing time to laying the rhythmically positioned tracks- thankfully, although it would have been a funny addition to the memory. But we kissed passionately like out of some movie where the guy and girl say goodbye in a train station where the trains still used steam and there’s so much more noise and it’s black and white, but sadly there was still segregation between black and white during those films so I suppose they kind of represent a bad era, probably.

She got on that train and immediately began writing me a love letter about how much she dug me and hoped to see me again soon.

Bump.

Sometimes letters get lost, and sometimes letters shouldn’t be sent at all. But she sent that one, the one she wrote on the train, and I sent one back and a couple more and so it went and then the letters stopped altogether and I don’t think they got lost as I got one I really wish I hadn’t which said I was different and everything was different and I didn’t love her anymore which is weird because my heart hurt so much with joy when I was opening that letter and then hurt so much with pain after I read it, and I think I can’t claim what love is, but I can claim that I was either close to it or at least she was able to make me think so- and that still hurts.

Bump.

But the trains stopped! We’re here, well, I’m here and she’s there and there’s a pretty little filly from this city who I love dearly and I know I love her because I haven’t ever fallen in love with her but she is amazing and by far the most beautiful person I’ve had the joy of knowing- and now there’s telephones everywhere these days so I don’t need to worry about her sending a bad letter or thinking that I’ve changed, and anyway she’s really quite pretty and I think she’s fun at least. So with that in mind I move towards the doors before they’ve even opened but keep moving and time it ever so sweetly as I’m still moving but they’ve finally begun to open and I just glide out as easy as pie, and the risk pays off as I’m currently the only person on the platform and everyone gets off and wonders how I’m so far ahead?

So there’s a nice cold breeze as I move briskly from person to person as although I was first off I wasn’t on the first carriage so people have taken a lead, but I’m in a good flow and fly past. But we all share it and make it so- the lights and energy and this is the city and it’s smoking, she’s smoking, I’m still smoking now I come to think about it, with the cigarette still actually in my mouth as I walk over the clouds with everyone here and I try not to annoy anyone by getting in their way and tripping them up, which would be an accident and quite funny but I’d still feel bad as it would cause those clouds above us which we walk in to burst and that would put us back down on the ground and put a downer on our day I think and it’s only just night so I think that would be unfair. But the guard stands at the edge of the train looking to everyone as they go by and he’ll never see them again probably so I wish him farewell and hope he does indeed take care, in case he’s forgotten, and to seal the deal I wave and nearly bump into someone who was looking around the station for someone, and as I correct my path and stumble a bit at the cost of it he smiles at me the first ever smile he’s ever given by mistake but was still happy to do so.

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Ossídio Gaspar

Revising myself

I am this continuous stream of cerebral matter

Exposed, disposed, cut-up into strips of thankless transparency

No one can see how I see what I can or cannot

There is no authority greater than a set of collected hours of authorisation

And that this is me and I am nothing and truly this

But not nothing like there is just nothing and nothing else

And not like nothing but everything else being except me, with and without, but that,

In the everything there is, I am this coincident meaning of what is this nothing otherwise,

Strips strapped bare and stripped of straps to anything

For when I am there is nothing dandier, nothing truer

Than the dandiest truth of myself being an absence for everything else

Meaningful, meaningless, spiteful or childless

That in the substance of life I am the next idea of the lifeless

And in the life of substance I am the edges evaporating into the rest

And this makes me a map, or a chart, or a scale or a number

Of pages, times, lines, conditions, chances,

A number of dead people – to be recited, or recounted

That breathe through me as I dance on the old land of the mortal soul

This is neither life nor death, this is an expression that must be either way

In the way that I am, in the ways that I am not,

In being and in nothingness

As in being and as in nothingness

The expression of the expressionism of anything

The truth carried two places to say that: even nothing needs to be affirmed

Even a lie must have its truth in the right to be said, in the air carrying its preoccupations

Even I am in what I am not, or that I am really not in everything that I am

Because I can be said in all of these ways and yet they are

The same ways to be said

The same places to be said

The same drawings to be made

The same conclusions to be taken

Because to be alone is to have mastered a certain kind of loneliness

Or because to be alone is to have failed a certain kind of society

Of the self, but to acknowledge one’s self is the highest kind of feeling

Like a stance with nothingness

Like a stand-off with everything

To have extricated, extracted, stolen or downright lied about this sensation of the sensations which makes this the one sensation of profound loneliness

Which is nudity, which is an uncommon reflection

Eyes turned in

Tongue turned out

Arms and legs swapped around

I am the shadow of a lost body remained at the accidental point from which it became lost to its final drift

I am the expectation to grow without the knowledge of it having already being happening

Too much

Too far

Away

Also apart

There is nothing that can keep me closer to myself

There is nothing that can take me much further than I already am

And the questions of what I want and what it is to be are nothing to me

For they keep me more or less where I already am

As that missing person whilst everything else was only everything

I am revised like nothing before

I am nothing like anything before

Or I am everything and nothing means anything instead

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Collection of memories and creativity

China Tea Pot.

The moon has fallen –
The sun is dead.
My mother’s tea pot
Broken like bread.
            *
Disheveled fragments
seldom held;
Lay on the alter –
Needing a mend.
             *
Her body Hollow
With pursed lip.
Her arm no longer
Glued to her hip
             *
Losing her head
Was often the norm;
Hell hath no fury
Like a tea pot scorned.
             *
She’d sigh and sigh
And moan some more
About the table cloth,
Window and door.
             *
Perplexed little thing
Molded in China
She hadn’t a clue
She was in South Carolina.
             *
She’d whistle and hoot
Every Autumn and Winter.
Crying and crying
For the Milkman and sprinter.
             *
On the twenty-seventh of July
She fell from the table.
That round impervious bottom
Meant she was rather unstable.
             *
The moon never fell
The sun never died
But that stout little tea pot
No longer cried.
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