(from Anthology, Red Kite Production, https://www.scribd.com )





you said, on the yielding of the inquested signs, without this information; the setting of the plates on the table on that particular afternoon, when the light was the last thing i saw on your face. with no one else and the few minutes of coldness. song in d minor. the riddled nod. we moved into the direction of the moving shade, defeated.


he saw the thought, each with one, and the feeling in requested. few had survived. "so you are dumber than you first appeared," he said.


with all the noises and wisdom displayed on both sides of the fence we moved, and holding each other hand with no intention to make any one uncomfortable. the line at front of the club was still long. this heated night on the middle autumn. lust unfolded.


on each thought he held the trumpt card: asperger.



"we moved!" the boy said. utmost memories fading into the white, leaving in displacement of saints and sinners. juggling earshots of drowning feet.


he put his foot, the right one, on top of mine.


with no intention to display any emotion, the facing to the south, no one really understood the double meaning of the deleted message. no one really knew.


--fun on the house.


we kissed between the ears, holding silence and vows; least intended.


of the lines jesting in. the moment and the feeling of festivity. modifying requests. i for once withdrew the last emotion; that coldness of despair. he retreated back into the back of the van, holding and touching the facts of this numbness between us. the blue jeans of youth.


"understanding this," he said. if not, the feeling returned, in shapeless hands. both denied by the falling of the heated temptation. seeded feline. nodding into the direction of each thought. we both rejected. cunts and the lying lemons. he laid his head on the soft green, molding each lines into the curves of songs, mending his own heart. old thoughts kicked hard. memories in disguised. we were.


the falling (dead), rusty holes of facts, justifying the need



to linger and define, when all things stopped to meet at the junction of yesterdays. of all things in regress. the sound and the silence.


implication of modesty. none and nothing to care for.

both and the destructive nature of the slime machine.


waxed and polished.


insidious slouch: --but besides intuition there is no other mode of recognition, except through conceptions; consequently, the cognition of every, at least of every human, understanding is a cognition through conception--not intuitive, but discursive. all intuitions, as sensuous, depend on affections; conceptions, therefore, upon functions. by the word function, i understand the unity of the act arranging diverse representations under one common representation. conceptions, then, are based on the spontaneity of thought, as sensuous intuitions are on the receptivity of impressions. now, the understanding cannot make any other use of these conceptions than to judge by means of them. as no representation, except an intuition, relates immediately to its object, a conception never ralates immediately to an object, but only to some other representation thereof, be that an intuition or itself a conception. a judgement, therefore, is the mediate cognition of an object, consequently the representation of a representation of it.


each on our own dream, and you whispered his name. falling down with no intention to get up. the soundless



howl. owl facing the night, waiting for headless scream.

noted and defined. you sighed the last word of the night.

calling his name. calling him.


cut and sliced.


not even a single flower. the laugh and the laughter, falling in behind the line waiting for the last breath. numb to the bone. holding our faces hiding behind the soft masks of time. nothing witness the empty shadow of rejection. i said my own lines of refusing the cold facts of your love. "calling home," you said.


within this note fold & flooded with your intention to pull back. we stood on the edge of future, facing back into the void we have been trying to escape. the longing for the endless summer of youth, mouthing off into the vastness of the sea.


you leaned on to me, like an empty vase. holding on to each thought the lying face of insecurity. meaning to taste however and whichever that flower had to offer. cold names spitted out from the mouths of unsatified mothers. the callings of/for the untamed.


he struck the bell to bring in the spirited corpes, following the windy moving dust and crazy clouds. ending each word with silly sylabble. conceited notions of the impossible color; that mighty vein. if and only if. you touched one side of your face, searching for each word a new sound of his marks. the calm sea already



went back to the deep; waves that only know how to yield. in desolation of the dying sun, you dropped your hands. both of your hands.


"this silent treatment is killing us both," you said.


the length of time between two falling stars, justifying the killing of need, each of us in our own corner of memories, the things we said.


and feeling withdrawn, into and forward; to that last lingering moment of love. each tamed with unsalted wetness. we came for the little smile from the girl who rejected shadow; hollow eyes of despair, with no claws. the fine line cutting through hate. this silence among the lions, waiting for the fall of the killing. each touch and feet hanging off the balance beam; memories best served cold with straight faces. you said his name again, twice. his song and the soulless noon. you touched my hand softly as we passed through the gate.


decided and conquered. domestic memories retreating back into the far corner of youth, medning informations into the vowels and consonants of defeated messages, handing off desire. memories, yes that kind, on the lawn left from that century by a decayed songtress.


yeilding molded rat hatred sunday. conditioned with yesterday foul.


with and without.



running on empty; the desolation of verified kiss on the steps of healing devotion. i was on the mercy of your confusion, waiting to be accepted by your blind faith. this silly notion of us merging into some domestic arranged life. the curtain and the iron gate. flower flowed bed made before noon.


collapsing and walls.


on dream. in shadow. with wishes. side -steping into the future of the refined, those hollow eyes of mating in the alleys and the corners. dark moon on hold. with his shinning metallic ass. in this street you fucked your life away with or without, me: a/your partner sanding in the face of a long lost dad, numbed with the chilly wind of your far away home. your mother, ah, your mother.


i asked for a moment of silence but got a chilling stare instead.


coffee with no ice. delightful tounge acid meat. this whole piece of dark area music that we called sharing. "for those of us who cared," you said. none fo the one that had no home to return. no and countless whispers. in the wind and the sunless road. falling into loud mouth of a screaming child: "i want my lion!!!" --hiding away with the mother side of the in- laws; they don't know how to chase away shadows. you kissed the back of your own hand, absolutely terrified with this pouring rain. henry the navigator: in 1441 a small portuguese caravel



commanded by antao goncalves sailed down the atlantic coast of africa. he lead his crew ashore on a raiding party. they didn't find much woth plundering, but they did capture twelve of the local people and took them abroad the ship. upon gonvalve's return to libson, he presented his african prisoners as gifts to prince henry, brother to the king of portugal and known as the navigator because of his interest in seafaring and exploration. prince henry immediately recognized the potential of the twelve unfortunate men. ever the good catholic, he wrote to the pope seeking approval fro more expeditons to capture more people to use as slaves. the pope replied by granting portugal the right to enslave any heathens, or non-christian.


henry's court became the european center for mapmaking, shipbuilding and navigational research. all this knowledge was use to further portuguese exploration and trading opportunies. at the end of fifteenth century. vasco da garna led three ships around africa to india; portuguese traders penetrated deep into asia via the rivers and inland seas of eastern europe; and the atlantic coast of south america and the amazon river were first explored by portuguese seafarers. henry was responsible for the rapid portuguese expansion that took place over the next century, which, in turn, sparked the transatlantic slave trade.


in memories. you knew we were. and the lenght of his staying in your house, under the roof where your parents once stayed for the whole summer; which i prefered to



call our secret. why me? what with the silent retreat and the walk away steps? those in line waiting for the last leaving of breath; pissing into the river of lies. withholding and undead. cost plus country meadow and the flying dream.


in trust of the followed measured; the side no one wanted. heated moment between the strong allies, not for once touching each other. good-bye time for the bitter moon. acting on cue. foremost in destructive vision of mighty now. in line with the sound of defeated scream.


cool down period: i unpacked, readjusted, reported on my travels, familiarised myself again with the routines and smells, the small pleasures and large dullnesses of home. but my mind kept returning to all those fervently innocent discussions we'd gone in for when robson hanged himself in the attic, back before our lives began. it had seemed to us philosophically self-evident that suicide was every free person's right: a logical act when faced with terminal illness or senility; a heroic one when faced with torture or the avoidable deaths of others; a glamorous one in the fury of disappointed love (see: great literature). none of these categories had applied in the case of robson's squalidly mediocre action.


nor did any of them applied to adrian. --it seemed he had none of this innocent claim. the flower and the decayed memorizing flute.






and the language defined by your own hate, feeling toward the derise and the stirring mind, with no way out. you struck the wall with your own two bare fists,






inside home and the house. in the hugging process for the one leading the poverty line, unable to escape the notion of reading in the dark. "he understood me," you said. view unobstructed by the hills and the moving shadows, behind the collapsing walls of memories, yielding for the ants and the dirty rats. cost full empty eat sweet and the cold sandwichs. hissed tongues. slavery slavery slavery.


soft touch of my shoulder. scars and tissues. bondage throughout history.




of each feeling, the wordless voice he left behind in your mouth, leading into the sign unwanted thought. this melody of the soft tinted sunday. we moved into the shade, avoiding each other's shadow. it meaned we did not come to argue.


for this dream to stay. mindless and the dreamers. "dreaming of being a margot? manic depressive, aren't



we?". in-laws and the suffering love of flying kisses. the line between both touches, young and naive, insulted by falling off the dying sun. sometimes we both realized how serious this affair gone off, touching basic needs of modifiying human condition. all young and no one to turn to. buying laughs. "have you ever been inside the end of the rainbow?"


calling his name. you was calling his name.


don't get me wrong. i'm not interested in cars, old or new. i'm vaguely curious why you might name a large saloon after such a small game bird as a snipe, and whether a minx had a tempestuous female nature. still, i'm not curious enough to find out. at this stage i prefer not to know.


but i've been turning over in my mind the question of nostalgia, and whether i suffer from it. i certainly don't get soggy at the memory of some childhood knickknack; nor do i want to deceive myself sentimentally about something that wasn't even true at the time --love of the old school, and so on. but if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotion--and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives--then i plead guilty. i'm nostalgic for my early time with margaret, for susie's birth and first years, for that road trip with annie. and if we're talking about strong feelings that will never come again, i suppose it's possible to be nostalgic about remembered pain as well as remembered pleasure. and that opens up the field, doesn't it? it also



leads straight to the matter of miss veronica ford.



Le Tuan




from Anthology, Red Kite Production, https://www.scribd.com