Bye Bye Blue


Bye Bye Blue
René Adams
1,033 words

I shuddered back, hands bound behind me, surveyed the darkness, and ran forwards.

Feeling their spreading steps. And then I just ran. I would say that I ran like the wind, but to be honest, I ran more like an animal, only dodging posts at the pier with luck. And the sea-gulls were the only ones not lying as I ran down the pier. The wooden boards pounded and reminded me that my feet were bare. The space between them, and the pier, reminded me of you. And. I became water after that.

But, before that, I thought a great many things. I thought about how I ask you to wear your easy stuff outside. And showering in the rain, how this water tastes like that wine I bought you, thinking about, just got too many debts love… I’m best this way, thinking about, roses, and how, I’m glad that I kissed you at the bar, in-front of everyone, and then I leap, nothing graceful, where people go over, where birds go over, silhouettes hover and say hello to the horizon.

And finally, we see fish like each other, where even the elements do not depart us from reality. We kiss the dawns of losses, with only those, that would see them rise, by dream, of our own fight. And I swim down, drift, drift, and my hands are suddenly free.

I have no idea why, and there are parts of me now, that say I cannot ask such things. But I twist myself in the water and look up. And all I can see is light. Not the light that you know. But a liquidic, bright, daylight chaos night, where, we dance, made of cosmos, so hard, that our swaying hands create rhythm. Bound and tied rugged by life, when souls are free of such, trust them soon, only if in their watery echoes, where you see, a partnership, in such darkness.

I pass down fighting. I fight the blue. I fight the red. And once I had a dream about an
endebted man, then there, within the sea, I began to go down, my nostrils no longer speaking, the water within my lungs, I would preach, I would sing, so no low gravity percivale, down down, whiskey drum, whiskey twist.

All eyes open and gloat brethren, to another world. Chokes and shocks past a body,
probably better that I swim down, so many many songs, my eyes lilac, my beats bloody

where my muscles spasm and refuse. Dunno why I dived, I fought a long time ago

In hazy love, down down a dive

all the way home, some life, no, some death hey

then among


I shave and see you rolling in beside me. It’s a work day. The shower door is open.
No love is wasted but that which is burnt. Since where we’re going now, can transfigure waterfalls with all suns. Death is wilder than life. Life is the knuckle struggling free, then a finger.

And where there is a river, sea, spirit, heart, song, movement, fight, dance, rhythm, man, woman, cascade, tune, enemy, stillness, the sea’s night, the sea’s morning, life, shackles, water, fight, fight, fight, twist, grace, closeness, music, hymn, God, strike, old songs, the good songs, the ones below the sea, the ones below the man, the ones below the woman, the kick, the agony, the trapeze, the hood sucking into your teeth, the no, the no, legs tied, the last ounce of air, the chords, the blood, the restless lightening, the lung the lung, the scream in the water, the no the no, the dove with her white remedy, the lion of all days, the up the up, the bayonet reach! The never calm! The waltz! The beat and sway, the loosening of filthy rage, THE NEVER DIRGE! And, and nothing, time to rise, come on! UP UP UP – GO!

Seen enough of this dusky sea edge, I’ll place one arm up after another, displacing the sea, thrashing thy infinite night, the days will come, I’ll come too, time for a man to rise, and I’ll catch a current washing me away as I finally surface! – FWAH! Took you a while huh huh! – uhmn – country space and all of your November, damn it, lets back stroke under the moon! Ha! Lets swim in ways that are long lost, ways that have many more laps, ways that strike the water, ways that call from a rib-cage and dragoon, I flip over onto my front, swim East West South and North.

And most vixens were calm in the city, and most bulldogs were calm in sleep. Then a man swam. He made a bible from his swim, and headed back to the shoreline. He was strange. Covered in a mess of sea junk. He felt the sea-weed wrap around his limbs as his figure walked forth. He was spitting out some rosey sea-water and singing. A low song from the base of his solar plexus. Head hung low. Ready for round two. An opera from the spine. A lymphatic growl.

Collapsing in the sand, by the pier to his left, crabs became the morning, picking at his cheeks. Hey hey ho. Get the hell off me. I’m Jaques. Jacques Ballius Du Merrigne. He spat. And a crab sent a claw into Jacques eye. He waved it away. He stood up. And then, there was only the terror of being wet, so no terror at all.

It was time for a cigarette. Time for breakfast. And time to collect. The bay was clear. Lonesome with a style. Jacques walked towards a dog walker and asked her what time it was.

Early morning swim? She asked.

Aye. I replied.

Displaced and dressed in white, the lassy wasn’t dressed for December, and her dog was a German Shephard, calm in the wind, blacky brown and alert. Her eyes were deep and perfect black. Pupils opening in several worlds of moulasses. Blinking, smiling, her dress and the sand one. A colour made from flesh. Bare foot, black hair dancing.

Shall we go?

Lassy asked.


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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