organs of domino ~ René


Fear in the books of preachers,
sands rolling thunder blocks of life for a pharaoh,
a thicket of arms bent to pull- –

Now and then scripture-, enough pyramidic
memory to let one roll into reality less blessed,
than nats in a beer stain, a string vest in an autumn part, bible-belt, part, fear of gross data- –

Animals becoming attuned to human fury
by instruction, I, winter, spring, the Northern

Make my night moveable~
pork batter musicals
beards walking the stones! The data pulls back
its face—- to take! To trade blows!
to remind my unbalance that you split my nature
into growth, our dance turned palladium grave,
turns run into walk; and a synonomy of grace

Away from the books made of burnt chimera–
Now! Fear in thy neighbour!
In thy circuit!
A s there are many killers in the sunlight!
That never bathe!

Fearing the primal side of smoke, fear the drake as it soars
like a jet inside the tv screen

Fear the missiles as they dance across oceans, support their birth from mortality
as hands mime to love
that fear is a bull better bred for sanity;
as I can understand no bad feeling, as the blood of my home
lays with the green heath of London, and the alchemy of life
above and below the deck
is an androgynous and safe ship;
ah, the choice
to be warped or
made sterile
into dusk

The massiveness of the wind departs from dialogue;

What we become in these strong lips unmoved,
must be cheered by our hands, no matter how still- –
until sepulchres are blown to apex, and the rest dies on the canvas,
and fiction weds sharp in the tomb, as the dyes of our skin flair, showing flaws in the mirage, and your knuckles create mine- –

We haven’t slept until now, ‘Then!’

The men who learned what makes flesh clock-work
tic k- tock tic flesh
first- included fear in the punch, the party dances itself
apart. Where? Harbourless if not spiked by themselves,
the militia, the militant, ambiguous arms raise hello
terror born from good-bye

Through generations to accept the pulse,
come the Earth drip, Hades licks Hylas, politicians
look up, into the oiled crack
our d.o.m.i.n.a.t.r.ix.
called ms freedom-

Pay-days reek of sulphur, not spirit
books united
by sweat.


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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