anti-romantic-works - Tumblr blog

[anti-romantic-works]

“in linguistics

we have a thing called

speech acts.

simply put

they are the convergence

of the information

and the action in a sentence

such as ‘you’re fired’ or

‘I dub thee knight, arise sir what’s-your-face’

(though apparently kings and queens do not say that)

or, the one that matters most here,

I do.

and even though I said it for good a few months ago

I don’t think it was there that it became official

there were way more than just one speech act

it was in every sentence

in every word

every single good morning,

would you like a cuppa?

come here,

I’m so proud of you,

I’m here for you,

I love you

all of them stronger than I do

stronger than a signature,

than any contract

5 years of speech acts”

Speech acts, L Otávio

[anti-romantic-works]

my parents don't understand why my girlfriend doesn't speak our language it is not her fault, though that's what they say it's all on you, Lucas that's what they say you are a Portuguese teacher or better you are a 'professor de português' and that's where it hurts that's where my own mother language failed me they do not understand that I'd much rather be just a teacher professor is not enough professora might be too much what does one do when their own language doesn't represent them where does one go when they feel just like a tourist in the words that raised them my parents don't understand why my girlfriend doesn't speak our language but it's as simple as it can be if words can hurt from all the people in the world the last one I'd want to throw the wrong ones at me is she

Mother language, L Otávio

[anti-romantic-works]

A plate, several plates. A table being set. You see the plates coming and going, they are actually just two plates, the rest are just for the dishes, appetisers, garlic croûtons, olive oil, olives. Also just two hands, no one else is coming? Here comes the cutlery, here come the glasses accompanied by a bottle of wine, it must be a special occasion. The brand new placemats  suggest that as well, someone else must be coming, but for now it’s only that pair of hands, a dark, long fingered, pair of hands, tanned despite the lack of sun and with bitten nails despite the objections. Just those hands, several plates, the cutlery, the glasses and the wine. Candles arrive, the light goes down. A strong scent of spices breezes into the room, the candles are lit. The shower goes off. Funny how its sound wasn’t noticeable until it went off. A call for whoever just left the shower to come downstairs. There is a small accent there, they are not from here. They come downstairs. The hands that were showering touch the dark hands, there is a joke about the wrinkly hands. They are whiter, smaller, than the other ones. It seems like they are a couple, the four hands touch. The longer hands bring a dish through. There are two bowls, a piercing aroma comes from them: coriander, a wee bit of ginger I believe, some curry powder too, or at least that’s what the bright yellow colour suggests. There is an expression of delight, of happiness and pride. The small hands say ‘you didn’t have to’. The other hands say 'that’s nothing, you deserve it’. The pearly hands don’t have that same accent, they are not from an outlander, but the accent from the tanned hands is still there. Slight, but still an foreign accent, the 'ths’ sound Irish, their 'rs’ are unstable and the vowels too shut to be Irish, I don’t get it. The soup is great, according to them, they kiss, exchange words of endearment. There is something inherently sweet, inherently genuine in this dinner. They are almost finished with the soup already, the dark hands fill up the wine glasses, pick the bowls up and gesture for their lover not to move. They come back and say to wait for a few more minutes, it’ll soon be ready. They kiss, talk, laugh. Their happiness is what someone looks up to but cannot feel any kind of jealousy or envy toward, you can only be happy for them. The oven alarm goes off, the hands with slightly bitten nails gesture once again for their partner not to bother. They go through, take a few good minutes and return with a pan filled with roasted ratatouille and spaghetti. The hands that carry the dish apologise for any lack of flavour or, instead, for the presence of any burnt flavour. They are then touched by the delicate hands of their partner who tells them not to worry. Such a sweet voice, there’s no way one could worry when listening to a voice like that. They feast on the ratatouille, that same voice says it was divine, to what the other replies with a thank you, or more like a tank you, another one of those accented slips. The small hands take a napkin, clean out some ganache from the corner of the mouth of their lover and ask where did that come from. The question is met with a response of 'just a sec’ as the dark hands get up and go back to the kitchen. They return with a big chocolate cake and brigadeiros. Of course! That’s where that disguised accent comes from. After a solo performance of 'happy birthday to you’, they kiss. The small hands are asked to cut the cake from the bottom to the top, so you can go up in life. The dark hands hold the small hands and ask them what did they wish for. They kiss.

A plate, several plates, L Otávio

[anti-romantic-works]

her name also started with d she was our arts teacher we were 11 or 12 we didn't care much about her after all, she was our arts teacher and we only feared maths, sciences or liked some teacher that was funny or anything but not her, she was so quiet she never caught our attention until, one day, she didn't come to class no one cared, we had free time to play football the following week, she didn't come either someone filled up for her and some friend of mine whose mother was also a teacher told us that the arts teacher was ill but not 'properly ill' she had this weird illness that cannot be seen its name starts with d the boys didn't care, they were playing football my friends didn't care, we were talking about bands I didn't care either, not until some years after that we were all so naive, but we were 11 but still, the teacher wouldn't come to school 10 years later, I couldn't go to work or uni I thought I was too tired I used to get up before my dad and go to bed after mum but on that day, I didn't get up, I stayed in bed all day I was being 'too lazy', I just had 'to have willpower' I was 'not like that before' at least my friends and I had an excuse we were 11 but now no one could see the thing inside me with that same name that starts with d as the thing inside the teacher whose name started with d

her name also started with d, Delilah Rosenfeld

[anti-romantic-works]

there’s only one option: to leave all this behind and still come out on top to make mum and dad proud disregarding the fact I was a disappointment to have nice words being said about me even though I wasn’t a winner so that lady doesn’t get annoyed I let her down and ‘understands’ why I couldn’t help to have a forever faithful lover even if he was a lying lover to leave everything behind and still be loved if only I was strong enough

Dying Young, Diane Y.

[anti-romantic-works]

now you're nothing but a stranger a memory, a scent, an idea lost, a blur tu n'es qu'un étranger et nos rencontres ne servent pas à rien. j'aimerais t'oublier. the time passes, the grass grows. our love smaller each day until a day off it goes nous sommes trompés, je céderai. je suis complètement perdu c'est triste qu'au fin nos cœurs paient.

1957, Graham Shaw

[anti-romantic-works]

Trois hélices en attendant par le commandement. Un click et le chant plus fond que l’Océan Pacifique du moteur annoncent: elles danseront. Lentement elles mettent l’air à danser ensemble. La chambre est dejà plus habitable, mais un autre click annonce l’augmentation de la vitesse, les hélices ne dansent seules plus, son écharpe, perdue sur l’étagère de livres commence à danser légèrement, les lettres et les couleurs du West Ham United se mèlent entre elles mêmes, les souvenirs affichés au mur essaient de sauter au milieu de la chambre pour joindre à la fête. Un troisième click et les hélices sont un frisson, on ne peut plus voir combien elles sont, elles sont seulement un flou, les papiers volent, les draps du lit vont et retournent comme des vagues, le son est assourdissant, tout est mêlé, perdu, mais uni. Un click final, il peut encore voir tous les détails, les trois hélices, une après l’autre, les trois cents soixante degrés couverts par les trois noires hélices, mais il ne lui voit pas. Il n’écoute rien, les feuilles sont silentes, les draps sont immobiles, mais il écoute son voix, son réspirer. Enfin, les hélices sont un flou, les feuilles volent, les draps dansent, et le ventilateur est assourdissant, mais elle n’est plus là.

Le silence du ventilateur, J. M. Charbonnier

[anti-romantic-works]

I listen to beyoncé I listen to beck I listen to frank ocean and to haim to public enemy and the mystery jets as I read ondjaki and fitzgerald the thing here is: I am fond of art. art should be what we care about with all these discussions on numbers on how many records one sells or how many instruments one plays for fuck's sake leave the numbers to the mathemathicians and physicists we are artists or at least I thought we were and as artists, we should love nothing but art ignore life behind it artists must have no face artists must have no voice artists must have no colour art should bring all of that. but we lost the fight the mere fact I'm using the word fight is the reason why we lost the fight. art is not about competition but we are mingled intrinsically in this western culture of war our language is bellicist our awards are bellicists our lives are a compendium of competitions and battles. since when an artist is one to fight? discussions should be dances they should only take the best out of everyone and not hatred nor more misunderstandings. since artists can't fight the western culture defeated us

Artistry, c. fleener

[anti-romantic-works]

it started in solid ground a daring movement a tumble into love a distance a dream until eventually the ground gave way and it flooded him and her they were drenched in that love but poor them, they couldn't swim she needed him so much closer he needed her so much closer transatlanticism plane tickets smiles and I-can't-believes misbeliefs from unbelievers countdown first flight first arrival amongst candy floss looking down on patchwork dreams as a jigsaw fitting perfectly once again, solid ground somehow, different, our people created these differences, based solely on 'cultures' and 'languages' but don't believe in that, my friends, love and amor are four letter words amor e love são escritas iguaizinhas the two of them in the same place geographically, I mean, cos their hearts are always to be together. passports expectations and that's the point where dreams crossed the borders that's when they reached reality that's when him becomes me and the point it's you, not she, the way you looked, the way you smiled. the ocean is six miles deep and that plane was so high I don't even remember the heights but no, nothing was bigger than my happiness that afternoon at the island.

the island, L. Sousa

[anti-romantic-works]

I haven't had my hair cut since we met I never stopped to wonder why Was it the extra shifts at work? Was it the depression? Do I spend too much time studying? I stopped and thought Do I fear you might fall out of love? Or that you won't find me pretty anymore? But now, almost seven months later, I know why It simply doesn't matter anymore You won't mind it You mind more than meets the eye The way you look at me, little darling, You're not looking at my eyes, Or my hair, or my mouth, or my big nose You are just looking at me.

haircuts, J. W. Meester

[anti-romantic-works]

medicine is essential maths are important laws are necessary to some degree poetry is a bravado even though all things in the world are nothing but metaphors and the verses don't have any real utility not in pragmatic terms, at least poetry is a bravado a shout to show someone how good you are a display of technique, emotions and blood metaphorical blood all things in the world are nothing but metaphors this poem itself is a metaphor too poetry is a bravado but worry not from all bravados, it is the most inoffensive one for while others bring blood to the faces shame to the houses and disorder to cities poetry is the meaning of the word bravado itself and the worst it can do is bring tears to the eyes or that acute angst in some corner of the heart.

Bravado, Lily Brees

[anti-romantic-works]

she came to me dressed all in blue the skin as bright as the sun her eyes pulled me like the tide beneath the sheets she made me sink she made me rise down I sank I could not breathe she made me drown into her I needed gills the skin as soft as seaside sands not dressed anymore she came

wet princess, Simon Blake

[anti-romantic-works]

they said there are writers old writers classic writers romantic writers realistic writers modern writers post-modern writers they were wrong there's no such thing as writers not anymore, and god forbid they ever exist again no novelists, no poets, no horror-stories geniuses for, one day, and I dream it'll be today there'll be only poems to feel novels to live horror-stories to stop you sleeping at night (although this one can often be due to novels as well) yes, one day. one day we will live to leave words be I wish we could just accept poems as poetry.

(new) writer's (on the) block, Alex Hansfelde

[anti-romantic-works]

I had another poem ready to go talking about cutting myself (no, not again) when the skies opened up like my wrists would have. we all feel like shit sometimes

Pathos, Mary Agnes