strings of pearls being ripped from the tongue of a man
being beaten by a truncheon as he screams
his tongue is a string of precious jewels
like the line of a sunset being ripped from sunset
for good- the pink and blue flux puked flesh string
is the city’s way of balancing itself once again
each thud a knee
each growl from either surgeon or master-
yet our cells weeping
with over-applauded sadness that is driven into fury
on the streets by a lack of connection to oneself

The joke smacks the middle aged man’s face again
he does his job, with his face, making the plastic blister,
it will droop from the night as the harmless man just
wanted to go home, and the night begins again and
makes synonym of god and money and belief and blood

And the only word for life is tourniqueting
and we the market germinating: knock-off clothing–fish sellers bursting with jokes about ‘free fish with your fish’, eternal cellar doors opening like autumn beckoning to be let open in the summer, which they do, as the data screams, and the flying geese hawk

And yet they are now let out with the fury of city fields
and handless dreams trained to be tickets, so restless
to say they are not- that they bite at coins like bullets and the weight and lucidity of quantum is blown away by the simplenes of the chaos it can make intricate
and amazing news if read when steady

Already the tower clocks of CCTV twist unknowing where they are placed, and history is a spit ball on Ahab’s chin

with a spear
and no-one reads Moby Dick anymore
dying with the sorcerer tethered
to his fins, yet there was no question of the whale’s
need, there was only the book, itself, the words replacing fury

With the sea and his men, the madness lit by the silentness of infinite will,
where it accolades with the street and moves like a heavenly Boa snake that cannot be

if it does not play around your neck, the grip-
-the tightness of muscles that can kill you if not tamed, the gamble

the photo of you in it, the surprising choke, the tarmac, the knees flooding the cement
with your bones as you walk over it, and way before the flesh was ripe-
the way before it was ready to sing its own melody of the soft giants
and low sweeping things that entertain in prologue before wake,
the strings of pearls rips mind from mid
stream, the serum
of the collective
has somewhere
gone elsewhere;

Joy rides end in the plains of hammering light, but no thoughts end
when one either: gets out before


Looks at the damn car, your eyes look down the road, before-

The synonyms of life and sleep burst all about you, even on a coach
full of sigh, there’s an arm pit here for you, it’s angled a foot above
so you are included in it’s path of scent, and you spew out like driven
spirits with no drive

The philosophers are quiet where they did not submit.

The murals are quiet because they have been painted.

But hell, there is a time ticking in me organically that knows all that
without all that, a spirit of sober neurons, a stillness, the stillness
that begs only, that maybe I have to punch in, maybe my jokes and twists
are not so useful in the room i go to, but hell and heaven are old

they are the waste sacks of dogma, so- The madness comes,
and the madness, and the fire

Grow old,
my dear brother sister
do it wilfully, within the mask of your soul
where expression is your kin, and your partner is doing just the same thing man…

make it back to him or her,
you will create
what ever
must be done
and be free
if you do, just that.


is Raoul Moat in a boat. His first words were ‘Newky Brown’. As well as being our most prolific writer, René also creates graphic art, paintings and screenplays.

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