River banks swell in the swans arms,
the gander, the pen, the river, the birth
its dusk, its noon, its lotteries of war;
spreading in sheets of disperse.

Why does skin cry with religion? Why am I enjoying
this beer. Why does the fog taste like the street.
When I sleep, I sleep with fire, life death and poems made of skin;
no fight, no sea.


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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