(Droplet) – mozambique – (English | Português)

A toy © Gökhan Kayal in Clam Collectors of Maputo Luís Carlos Patraquim lives, but I read him as if he never lived. When I cogitate of his life, I sight odd coppery faces and calcined terrains, the hollowing of plasters in the decrepit walls and fences of Lourenço Marques, a sublimation spawning the vividnessContinue reading “(Droplet) – mozambique – (English | Português)”

(Droplet) – lurid rags of silk

Saint-Saëns — my father still says — was garniture for fatuous men and their gold-laden alcoves, veiled by a cordon of ludic dins; Milosz was flour of similar grain, a bargainer of truisms, a mute chaff coated by wooden beads. I liked them, I liked their touch, their texture, I see it as the textureContinue reading “(Droplet) – lurid rags of silk”

⌉|⌈ – Ethan’s Petal Dance

And now, the moment. Such a moment is unique. It is, of course, brief and temporal, as moments are, ephemeral, as moments are, elapsed, as moments are, in the next moment, and yet it is decisive, and yet it is filled with eternity. Such a moment must have a special name, let us call it:Continue reading “⌉|⌈ – Ethan’s Petal Dance”

⌉|⌈ – Arboretum

                Days are colder. Men stroll with long coats and laden heads, guarded from the rain, women grip their catatonic hearts, gazing into their reflections on the sultry train windows. I don’t remember the last time I cried. I’d swear I’ve seen sunlight in the past few weeks,Continue reading “⌉|⌈ – Arboretum”

⌉|⌈ – Für Alina

In 1976 — a year hardened by a big exodus within European confines, Alina, then eighteen years of age, left Tallin, Estonia, for a more promising life in England. Shipping in embrace with her father, she left only her mother, who was left in solitude. Arvo Pärt, by then a long-time friend of the family,Continue reading “⌉|⌈ – Für Alina”

⌉|⌈ – Irrigation, friends.

        Leaned against the customary elm tree, some would take aim at nouvelle psychologies, others would echo life-bound lessons at the bottom of a plastic beer cup. If elation existed on summary, little else would be needed to describe the happiness blooming from friendship. I’d spent my few years of breath on fighting prejudice andContinue reading “⌉|⌈ – Irrigation, friends.”

⌉|⌈ – Sunken Soul, debris.

“Sad is what I am — what I will always be,  an artist is born in form of a shipwreck,  and henceforth, that same sunken soul  shall live from scavenging the debris.”           Existence is often homogenous with the ebb of an ocean — composed of movements, violent thrusts against the shore, soothing hymns thatContinue reading “⌉|⌈ – Sunken Soul, debris.”

⌉|⌈ – Four Chestnut Kings

Four Chestnut Kings When I read poetry, it’s not customary to do it in one sitting, since verse can be overbearing at times, especially when the verse in question is condensed with a large amount of information or emotional overdraws. So, to break that cycle of lyricentric text, I will make a little break andContinue reading “⌉|⌈ – Four Chestnut Kings”