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brother and sister reunite!
It is just past 3 am on this deserted seashore
ghosts of winters past circle empty vessels, darker streets
they define my wanting to be here, this righteous need for confusion
and vicarious oplympianism.
This is the hunger that knows no end
for it feeds on long-lost affection.
This is a hunger born out of insults and randomness
craving understanding, high on the absence of scorn.
I vaguely remember the healing touch,
once more performed a while ago on an absent body,
a carrier of extreme History, made stronger by its scars
yet somehow faded into ether.
It is just past 3 am on this deserted seashore
Street signs read as roadmaps for change
Yet this hunger weaves stillness
in the shape of abysses, spirals, cathedrals.
A dull grey spreads, cinematic, molasses-like
the heart hibernates, soul prodding through.
“There are books I know I own but I have to buy them again because I can’t find them.”
Do check Clive James’ essay on the importance of chaos as a creative force. On the subject of Writer’s Rooms, an Eamonn McCabe exhibition.
We might have to change our name, as there are about a gazillion bands operating under similar designations… for the time being, we settle on a visual variation of the name that still reads the same: u__n. No worries, really – it is all about fluidity, which is why we have operated under quite a few guises throughout the last few years anyway:
FEAR
Cabaret of Complexity
Esemplasm
Awarehouse of Why
All-stars Impromptu Orchestra
Start!
Noddynoir
autodigest
The Monkey and The Guitar
… and, of course, our actual names.
So come visit us on last.fm. Regularly – like, once a week. At least. We shall serve a healthy diet of unpredictability.
The Man of Honor enters the buzzing ballroom alone
the smartest flanneur, reeking of verbosity and aristocracy
magnetic armor, tenderness an impossibility
The knight is the God-like creature we all have learned to worship.
The warrior may unravel stories of stoicism and sacrifice
bloody drapes a disembodied myth, wounds an abstract allusion,
a certain fascination we yet again celebrate, yet again regurgitate
as allure quietly melts into sheer, unattainable lust.
Yet the day comes when mythology collapses in slow motion
in a dimly-lit basement reeking of whispers and hesitations,
as Honor awaits, slightly anxious and attentive,
nude, vulnerable, his gaze a puzzle begging to be deciphered.
His wounds and scars are non-existent, as the armor is but a memory
His shame patiently sculpted into virtue throughout the years
decades of wisdom through trial and error
and the right dose of fate.
for F.+M.
António Alçada Baptista died last Saturday – a man whose words taught me about the strength that lies in softness, a man whose writings triggered such deep realisations in my young and hungry and uncertain heart.
I believe if there is such a thing as reincarnation, this man has already reincarnated: not in a sole, newborn body, but in the countless minds and hearts he enlightened, in the daily actions of those he inspired. Count me in among the ranks.
