How as reprobates, the village was ~ Ren

four

or five

of us,

younguns us

smooth in cold
thicket half
country gone
estate

trying to build, always
a place to nuzzle
in misty beer—–
4 was all you needed
the gift of early drinkers
piling bored
excited
demons
down

finding a way to make them come, yet none
knowing
more than simple ladders green-
knots looser

than beers in our mind
unyet to have
ourselves

blown apart
by thought
more than flesh

dreaming
of slim
shoulders
chuckling
and
opposed
to our own,

no other
mind desperate
for escape-
as there was only life in the fields, and the city:

a place where men dreamt
later
the sheer
size
of offices
had no delerious
quake
or love

matching the brim
of red 5
am
saturdays

such as ours,

still

I

feel

this

like bowing down
every now and then
into the dirt
of the endless fields—
where all the men were either
burnt

in the mild agony
of it all
or spewed
early

and were meant only
toleave.

and the chunks
of the city
are no different,
only that the fields
of soil
walk in suits
and press against
my shoulders
in tube like room
cells

no different to the ones
i know

and the rabits twitching where
they are touched
and promised
that the fetter’s
are their shoes
now
as they run steamless in the midnight flee
like small

furious

machines

outrunning

the nights

firing

gun.

renemutume

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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