Poems, tales, and cantaloupe ways (IX Cathedrals)

Since we are now: beyond civilised, the last iconic man, the most iconic woman, drinking first proto-home, chet baker-del ray, where our laws still clear the room, before it’s over full, null, or debased… Although, good hands are the only universal minds we grow

We Andraeon, by the planes of a ferromode cliff, by the water jets of ports calling out to the physical wounds of street callers gone, where even the bay’s peace is shattered by fog, ever falling reeds unthatched by : the winds of human-sun, and always: human-moon speech

New Soho. Where memories are straight, and their fragile finger paints are those without voice strewing, and stopping the tube from moving, where birth marks pick places in the sky that lap nap black light evening : as neon brings, calm shocks near hover maps begging for fleshy applause

Old imploder, where the foul morsels become nearly July’s future, and the on drench of morning, dresses our year’s vermone lull, no windows are aware on the plane of guzzling sounds, but some in the angst that leaves my shadow work so : no depart in the winks of physiolight, and shatter that may be thrown

Mere facts: no serpents can build our day, the incredulous tram, grows more counterfeit ways as i travel it, and the moors behind me roll as if time is instinctual unfailingly : laying down tragedies as if times were weapons & parsival colours, spraying under east london’s foxy beers

Strange Gallion-S streets, in echoes of mineral hands, sororities kill, fraternities enable, but watch the priceless drink, i would talk to the cool trees tipping down into: the river where i am, as if their silence creates my walk, where doves become bear, and the liniment of paw, shall touch the water

Organic honor. My Calamore, smooth eager toll, the extant sways in humanity’s best guess, that’s why (s)he keeps us around past the mal-fem doors : to remind, the angel flux of the devil faux, the original, mode of shiftcolour dusk, where femurs walk in the sea’s ulna of passing land

Orlamae at the door, face up like a cathedral building a twin storming smile, where the spring is raining down with long black tremors around the slight den of all shoulders, twice the velocity of day, never the horizon without the day : running venus lawns, full of my assumptions about our mood, which of course, are all wrong. Until we meet next in apex June, the mundane things we exchange, yes, even they: rational fire. Until the road expires, back on itself, and leans out from our balcony, in further salute to the beginnings we know, and the gestures of those we do not. Helped by the trafalgar cars passing in and out of zero gulf, where the path still brings us our feet, above the nature of night.

Razor shimmer tomorrow become nothing in today’s example of life, by the trixune parlay of scent inside the hand, even the animals mould apathy into woven hills of rocking song, the hum of loosing it always beats the disgrace of remembering it, besides the need to eat, love, and the gorges between slope in the sockets of night, il n’y a pas long-temps, not long until organia meets the futures of language dogs, misused like the parliaments of dusk, mocking the narrative of fear, until the plumes open their gravity fold, the registrar marries two humans to life, and the lilac-snapping of bones, says to solace: poem, tale, fascia, and siphoned oak, we stop creating ourselves, when the trees speak in horror, and sweat, as we do.


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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