the tired, the funny (prose)

(transcript) She, for many mornings since some irrecuperable point in time, would sit in her garden, looking; lost. There was exuberance in her eyes as she gazed nothingness with abandon. All of herself was in that act of looking. She would call for Clarita to bring her pen; for days on end she did this.Continue reading “the tired, the funny (prose)”

of the right types of nascence (prose)

(transcribed) He approached Sabros and felt an inexplicably nervous density. It was sadness, he was sure of it, but not any sadness. This sadness, such is the nature of its absolute absence, cannot chill nor hold by virtue of its forms, and one feels instead in some aeropause by it created, like orbiting a bodyContinue reading “of the right types of nascence (prose)”

10, Outubro

I hope you’re doing well. School has recommenced for me and I’ve been tasked with an unprecedented flurry of obligatory readings, from books to papers to papers on books and books on papers. COVID-19 severely shortened the semester and one must toil to fit so much voluminous theory in such a thin amount of time.Continue reading “10, Outubro”

17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)

Forgetfulness has no worth by itself; it lacks an economy of space. Past our brutal archway of knotweeds and spruces, the pathways opened only to an abandoned garrison. Sucessive instants of nature hued the rubble with that superlative ghost of placeness and immortality, which is so rarely reflected in insomnia. The cabinets had illegible filesContinue reading “17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)”

13, Setembro (plasma, aiken)

Eliogabalus, Shu, Malakbel, Shamash, Sól; under the fragments of your cone reaching the lodes of stillblood; under your numerous risings, emptier and brighter; under you and always under, as broken circles or frangible slopes, the light pools around our fingers and edulcorates the tinge. We realise, now, how nights can be synergistic. How nights canContinue reading “13, Setembro (plasma, aiken)”

8, Setembro (loquat, violet, Bèla)

My artifice was underacted. Only when the sycamore expired did I gloss its brief sussurus. My muffled blood takes to the bludgeon of evening and, dry, proceeds to the integration. Sound has since slogged through five varieties of despair. A scream would be mute by the force of merely being. I take note of thingsContinue reading “8, Setembro (loquat, violet, Bèla)”

1, Setembro

She now oft forgets. Memories are volatile, as is the foam of waves and the formication they leave debossed on the shore. September reminds her of wasps, meadows, heat. I’m reminded of jags and seagulls or a deformed field of ashfall. I’ve never heard her express fear of losing the common ropes; my name orContinue reading “1, Setembro”

31, Agosto

“Books will give rest sometimes against the uproar of water falling and righting itself to refall filling the mind with its reverberation                    shaking stone.” William Carlos Williams, Paterson, Book Three (The Library) The inexhaustible becomes the forgotten. I abhor times of initiation and transition; this science of conjuring aphotic worlds is annealed by a silence which, by nature ofContinue reading “31, Agosto”

(translation) the trains that leave to Antwerp, herberto hélder

Herberto Hélder was born in Funchal, Madeira, in 1930. His poetry began during the tail of Portuguese Surrealism, after Mário Cesariny, and had as recurrent themes alchemy, mysticism and ancient mythology. He died in 2015.He wrote the prose-poem above in his book, Os passos em volta, a book never translated into English. This translation wasContinue reading “(translation) the trains that leave to Antwerp, herberto hélder”