Ossídio Gaspar
Colour on the surface. I have lived colourful in the light
Splashed on to what looks like coloured me:
but not yet emptied;
It splashes on the body like a body in to water
with most fluid of me still to sun
Still to be made up in the loosening of the burgeon star
To radiate beyond the in between.
We wait until there is none of me left in that difference.
I am the fire that stops burning in the morning
In time for another day I will not see through
Rather the day of Time that sees through me
Empties me out, watered, passes through me
And spreads me well-lit across my emptiness
To be the night that by day will be clarified
A colder light which by Light is unrequired
Making me fire that will not burn into Light.
There is a migratory quality to all my qualities,
They go from north to south in and out of a seasonal
of their own hemi-spheric making
They transit hot and cold in their analogous differences
Pulling up the cover of the temperature seasons accordingly
Dragging me either side of a dislocated equator.
There is a temporary quality to all my qualities
They time difference east to west either side of a temporal
of their own mean-time making
They transfer night and day in their analogous differences
Pulling across the contrast of daylight to darkness accordingly
Throwing me any side of a timeless meridian.
These qualities of my qualities tell me
What time of the year I am in
What time of the day it is
In a worldplace of their own making
The world of my qualities separates to a geography that forecasts
According to its own climate
The world of my qualities keeps to a chronology that historicises
According to its own clockwork
There is this quality to my qualities
That might first rain in the morning
And then noon South in the sunshine.
The things that make me hate myself are complex and committed
They will always hate me, and I will always love them
They are all the people I know to be better than what I have done
All the things that are better than what I do
The uncertainty of what I do
My need for you
My therefore need to be and not to be my self-hating self.
The things I am mistaken with make me hate myself.
These are the questions I cannot answer
And the answers I have prepared incorrectly.;
Salvaging them, I use them to prove to myself
That my hatred is necessary and in it, at least
I can be correct.
As the edge of a surface always leads into a deeper surface
I walk off each one until I might plain-ly de-fine my movement
Yet all this has ever really meant is stair-taking on my way to the abyss
&in the abyss I will fall beyond movement because
I will not move beyond falling
So what was the question?
On its way away
The leaving leaf leafs through the ontologies of a more wanting head
It gets as far as the head that temperatures at an even loss of heat
Very much south of the North that any birthing indicates,
It is a head that loses at a set question of growth and division
It is a head that will therefore not grow divided
Will always sunnyside there, of course
And its occupation will be not more than what it misses
A tree in its own forest
Not a forest in its own tree
It will not forest when it rains
This one waits for the rain.
Much better for the leaf that always leaves.
I say that I will make the difference
Then I see the difference and I ex-claim the difference
And such a heavy announcement goes against the -mission itself
And the difference this makes cancels the one I said I would make
The difference I make is a phallus sea difference
Because fallacious me I do not make the difference
But difference is made through contrasts of phallic me
Ever since first ex-cited enough to announce the Sea of Cunt
I say that I am what I am, Sea of Cunt
But a phallus sea as great as that which this instead makes
Not only collapses the -mission but the big contra-dictor
And all his leftover seamantic love for the cunt he wish he were
So it cannot be me to succeed in such a trans-mission
It gets as warm as leaves growing on the back of the head.
A leaf leaves if it has taken its time.
I am left, rooted.
A new surface which emerges from the right
Goes back down all the way round,
At first, it takes a year
But then it comes through any which season
The weather trying to make me loveable,
But culpable me to not always meaning it
Their mistake, of course.
I might forest when it rains.
A beach State 