A brief eternity ~ René


This new antipode: my blood in your arms on the rack. The moors and their insane peace. Photos of the city of light. As they are both made of our skin. London below the bridge and inside the eyelets otters skip in mercury black. No bridge between desire and action.

Canary Wharf and her desperate stars that I can see from my balcony. Let us say that we have travelled well only when that same travelling has destroyed our worthless guile, and the faces that we return with are made of elements burning with vitality, tongues wet the street, distress, and play without mask.

The sheep collect in worried herds of white armour. And look at who comes with collected bleets as I trip over the fence. The cold


before comradery



and the night disembodies


it holds off

and shall dance lighter

as we;



mix with


and mix sense

without breath

Like the moors baking red in the morning beyond, where anyone can live, and do, screaming as we fly smoking fish along the salmon jump and they rush into our mood from the river.

I walk to the job centre now with Fichte, Hegel, and Rousseau and those whose word I care for more. Some of whom are summer, all of whom are you.




I shave with a grin. I like to shave with you washing near.

I pull the razor up my chin as I watch you walk to work, and the sun is one dome.

A swans neck is pulled back across its wings resting, easy, wrapped back into the white flock of its own mind and sound, as it incubates its eggs. 2011.

Then they just stay there and cannot hatch, and you can see them below the bridge for a few years…

And then another Spring helps the same black fellows and wives mix there as I watch, the water Voles are the mightiest hearts of the North, pissed unshaven shaved, spare gatherers in the darling adventure mixing in the bobbing heads, only if you have the time to be on the bridge, and watch, perhaps.

When the whiskey matters it splits you smooth.

I remember walking whilst it was hot.

And the mirage and the road were hot and the neon words were like separating parts of you and I. Complete.

All saying- eat the air like a goose. Smoke the air like a white delirium I can’t shake.

The moors have been smothered down tonight.

Into one landscape of long changing high and low apex. Night birds and bats shit and the new village ###, and sleep is both a male and female calm and why I keep a weapon in the shadow by my bed.

There is a job in the new hypnotised maze.

In the beginning we have seven days of each other, and never will that change. The only character in the play is blood.

The opiate in the dialogue.

Of all war and play, more organic and musical than its host.

Mask the courtier king vixen collapse collapse, collapse river, collapse the parts of our dragons drinking again together. Dance… Dole. You have to receive at least several weeks of it to really fly it, otherwise the government gets edgy from the come down.

Swan Vista. Rizla. Super Strength, flip over. A pregnant popes favourite tarot cards. Join him in pleasure. A while back. John Pope XII was my favourite. He gave land to his lovers and murdered the folks that pissed him off. That’s how power rocks. And what I am glad the soft clicks can never do. No hankies in the hospice for that trooper.

I thank the blackened moors for their stars as I lay back and there is no separation.

Yes to the unnoticed brothel that I lived above at twenty three in the city. The gross metal doors opening and welcoming a punter full of organic pride harmonic, no extremes bruised for £80, but some if you want, some if god spills his beer and it turns out to be rain.

If it wasn’t for those glimpses behind those cheap gates… Which I wouldn’t pass up for anything at all, I wouldn’t know anything. I would. And be in flux yet again.

Washing a solar plexus. Allowing for the water to unite on my flesh as it does yours and drain down gloriously into the haphazard drainage as it does yours too. The angry does and stags beg beneath the pulpit and shatter it just as it is.

They beg nothing more, and then rear within the grass. They look up as if to change what love is. Which they do. The sun gathers its perfume into one more cheering belch.

The earth quaking streets scream into the rhythms of the branches, and there is no one alone, apart from those who are born not knowing their vice.


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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