Our solo remains

weird dude

Our solo remains
René Adams
2,184 words

HE used to have all these messed up theories about what happens when you’re with someone. Used to say that each time you go at it that you’re actually creating new constellations. And that that’s the beginning of colour, beginning of azure. And that you could see each collection of them forever, if you looked up. Shot from bullets made of mercury. Fabric in the faceless ocean. Figs hanging from Artemis slashed and fired across nameless miles.

All the bloated conundrums dragging comets to and fro. God’s paws slapping Amut then Amut dancing. Then love found in a concave bowl where it bewilders into a collapsing nova, and the valleys are made from light. And the darkness is made from light. Trees with the sorrow of the sun. Your nape, your swallow, your night, our dusk. Cigarette smoke. Cities made from fins. Growing cadillac structures driving towards the sky and across the energy of space.

Forms of stars created, frozen in shape, for a blink, before the tiger naps moans and leaps away. So hard to label the cosmos as rebellious. Hard to find fault in the fine tuning of galaxy hymns, low be down by felidae tongue, written across a mongrels back, stars twisting like tattoos written across an opaque flesh, all cities firing where the valley is made from temperatures beyond change, and nothing but a swan stretching its wings, opening the chaos of peace.

My Father called them the ‘funny ones’. And by the time he was too far gone, and the only thing left for him was to talk to funny people, in a big funny home, with big funny grass, funny skies, funny grins, cool cool doors, funny walls, and personality pills, by and by the time, by the creases around his eyes, permanent cracks, easy, where his orbs concentrate upon Pluto always.


The poppy fields flood as I walk from my village to the next town.

I see a wooden grace hanging from a strip of green across the road. I cross. No cars or melody. Legs walking through reeds. Just sun and sun again. I lean up my face, grimace at the sky, smile at something dumb. I sit and sip on a rock. The hazy cologne of the fields. The nats and old walls. Nettles.


I dunno. I suppose I like how it went down. I was only ever told stories as a child. You know how it goes. You ask for just one story. Get a million. Then you grow up. You. Work. You. Lay together. Different places. Grow. Places. Different.

The thing that really kills me about the world-hive news message was, just how calm it was. I don’t know why I’m writing this. But. Hell. From all the repercussions of serious actions, lives, art, families, shudder, I at least thought that – saw through that – and hey…

This is what happens when you’re never surprised by the road anymore… All dreams in the sea, all force in the strike, a swimmer strikes a drum, the liquidic vultures of soft creatures below, the ice, the warmth, the dance, the grace of particles beaming in the rain.

And. The animals. What fucked me up, in my little flat, still smoking like a monk on fire watching the planes depart from – was that this even affected the animals.

I hadn’t bothered to buy a dog. I was lonely. Some days I used to ride the tube along to the airport just to imagine there was a place to go. I drank at the bar after I finished my days work.

God knows where the money was coming from. My room is full of battered books. Spines crumbling, pages coming away, great pages, great landscapes, great feel. And God likes that we invent, but not that we imply that playful things have meaning. Like the 000s and 111s…

Sometimes I scan my card and sing at the cash point.

After all, in a time where there are no more new ideas, a man singing in the evening at a cash point becomes an invention tomorrow.

The clock middle, bayonets drive in, no day open for a day out behind.

So when all the digitalum was flickering on my screen back home.

And it wasn’t time yet to play a few tunes on my theremin, to the calm that comes and goes, you sound like a fly playing Mozart from another world.

Guess that’s why I bought you. Just couldn’t let the years go by without learning how to play a song like that. I’m not much good. But every now and then, when I flick the switch on from this strange instrument, a few horizons come.

So of course, I just thought I was going crazy, like my old man, in the lime twitching dew pouring in through the curtains of my small flat.

On the first day it hit the world, I was sober. Felt awful.

I remembered being drunk from ten days years and seconds ago, sweeping around with a lass named Lucy. It was awful. She wasn’t in my bed. She wasn’t in my flat. Only pissing piles of energy in the shape of leaves, leaves and sheets of manuscripts, sketches, canvases, bottles, laughter, moons made from taxidermist paws, cans, jeans, ghosts, light, teeth, howls, easy light, curtains, day, eyes, ceilings, black hair, hair lost in a black piano, photographs on the wall, your smell in the drawers, the pigs the pyre the cool lagoon, the hogs the hogs weep into tigers, all upon polished wooden floors, all white walled in with lime sun coming in from the day.

But I’d been dancing in the streets crazy before.

Not crazy. Just young and dancing hard.

Crime. Muggers. Thieves. Knives. Globe-trotting trodden down gypsies ready with smiling hands and gifts to lift your wallet. None of that. Just that damn road. Lit by moon. Sometimes I go back and say never change. Ha. Well. That one got granted. Nearly did. But hey, that’s another time.

It all felt the same, I growled a little reminiscing. Smiling. Greasing my face with the sweat on my face. Lining out along the cream ceiling of my day’s work planning dance. Nothing too heavy. Then my tongue caught on something sharp in my jaw. And I fell back asleep for a few hours.

Think it’s Friday.

My eyes open inside the bloody rhythms of my heart. My bedsheets are red. The day is black when you touch it, and then turns into misty off-blue when you breathe it in.

Eventually I can tell that my rent is made from a thousand horses pulling rank around a dog and a fox. I continue to breathe. They breathe me. All reddy, no matter how the foxes coat should look, no matter how mongrel brown the dog should look. Guess that’s when your dreams start helping you out. Nice and straight. Get up you lazy fuck. Time for work. K.

I ignore the feeling like my neck’s been tattooed. Pull the sheets away from my legs. I know exactly how lost I was last night, I was asking a guitar to open on the girls thigh beside me, no problem. Shit. They even shaved a place for the tattoo. Bathroom.

Damn light coming in.

It doesn’t matter that I have legs covered in black twisted knots of hair. Always liked that colour. And you’ll never know you’re mad while stumbling, only while running, if you’re mad while moving slow, you just haven’t woken up. I looked in the mirror and saw a fleshy hand reflection. Big smiling black eyes and teeth, passing through… I pulled back. Asked reality how far (s)he wanted to ride. Never ask the night a question, you’ll only get a poem, and a set of bones made from mercury.

I leant back and breathed, so today I was a hound, and tomorrow I am gone, in this thicket of limbs I have all of mine, whether they are looser or tighter this is no matter, so the fur grows either way, so the churns of this day are like twins, where the moon hates piano, all swimmers grow strong, all dogs are never tied outside of shops, all ash drips into silk lined glasses, all doubt is chaos, all strikes towards elongated limbs, all hushes back know the swan’s harsh winter, all work is menagerie where vitality is not met with body, lies in the whispering drone, finality in the eye, a pride from all cheer.

I slipped back on a page outside my bathroom door. Nearly broke my neck on it all. Then I hit the street, to see if I was insane. I would have dressed more appropriately, but where would the dance be in that? And the joy of such a small room is that the bathroom is beside the front door. The past is beside the sink. The easel is beside your head. When each mirage along the street lifts its body up and down. Gotta pack up the wood and take it down stairs as I dress. I don’t know why I’m going outside. Maybe to bring and bring the night.

There’s no such song or devour for British weather. Perhaps a god back when they were arranging the sky clicked with a monotone creature from otherwise. Then they slapped the front door shut. Then all the pigeons were named feral. And I think the city enjoys it all. Past me ghosts rush forwards as the vehicles pray with each other in bored honks. The naked emperors we all are. Double sunk in earth, cement, wood, flesh, and pale faces, even when dark.

All keeping the misfit silent inside a hymn, a hymn of silence dragging its lips along train tracks. There’s every holiday saved, every sun lit under a swirling cantos, goading a ripping suit to take a newspaper, bunking with us all, the street, the waring grace of it all, every swamp of cloth a different species of rush.

However. I no longer laugh for short periods, instead, there’s just one that stretches from now till tuesday, and that mardi gras screaming through our own faces, the tube is late, the rats are on fire, the geese have forgotten their arrow, then somehow, remember it, as I watch them flying above. My country has a poem made of people. I’ll forget that poem with you, as we descend from paw to fury. All of the magistrates forget to wear their skin, the workers, the chilly gloats laying around outside of pubs, gaseous howls making white mists, stinking of home grown cigars.

Then it’s time to shed our skins of skin, where all the fumes are bust in the q, spent all the money past a long synth song that pours out from a brick palace. In this sway, kissing a bottle of beer the price of my soul, I belch into a shadow. All gone our separate ways, time enough among the lights, all sirens in the mellow decay, all Apollo arguing with the music, arguing within the general swarm of slopping drinks, a tall woman offers my friend several white moons in her hand, he scares, I laugh.

And the only thing about animals is that you have two different kinds. That kind that walk during the day, the kind that always walks during the night, and the corrugated stars, and the nil held road. Took a walk tomorrow, then stared at the sea. So strange that we all have our own sea. And the colour of that sea is sound and space, none polluted until we learn that there is transformation too. Quake all the stars into an impoverished dish, then, decide which animal glow you are. I am rage. You are sullenness. We dismiss each other.

Took a long walk into a gambling poem, always loved her Artemis city, straight edges, smooth peaks defying beer, although, ready to smoke… Ha! The universes muse is part improper usage of bone, unentangled with life. She and he wake together. Death heading across the west where ruptures and announcements are pale, and the architects lie, the dancers lie, lavishing the day with awesome disproportion, the painters go mad, the juggernauts are healed, the cheetahs and that lion I saw your cheek beside, all heavy with poem, I see them in the knuckles of fish, the tears of a knife dripping with beetroot, garlic, this siren sound of a door slamming as I walk out, such elements away from the decorum of this or that.

My office hits a long drink with a low drink, I grow back home, take the handle in my hand, and try with all my worth, to call myself crazy. Never works. I wake up. See a day made from two worlds. One is clay. The other dance. They meet. They delight. And. Among them. Your hair grows. My beard grows. The dark grows. The light grows.

A municipal howl, a place. And with limbs like Elektra and Bacchus.



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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