tenner ~ Ren

Painting face tenner! Tenner!walking the punch

of laughter;


my hands are electric’

a friend of mine once said,
when we’d both drank once more

‘To my left no one is in the night fishing
to my right i will see the moors tether into a high and low sighing hybrid wave
as if the hills where i walk now can move me
Absalom like the breathes we tear away we have name’

as i see you again in my sleep, in the journeys i continue from where they began
and we are raised into clinging cicadas that do as they do
bruised into the segments of a joining hymn
new years floating out from our pupils calm

a one day moment
a life born for the vitallic few
to the curse of eating full

when the cellar has slapped death awake it is worth crying,
before the comradery fails pour another mouth and love,
and as the mount disembodies into one let it hold and dance,

come the hoard that never kissed

my glass feels exactly like today

no one took her arse out the fire whilst she fought,
to the kinsmen she had made into men
surely fire,,
is what they wanted to know,,,

no ninth stanza at the beginning
no chameleons left to change
of a pike of driving flesh into hydrogen
no colour able to mix wet elements with the admittance of life
and the tomes of unwritten sound do not fly
as they do now
worms of butane in the hips of a lung
of a long front pawing angel in the midst of marriage
and a long neon lock in the immense flaws of camden

fugue states in the parliaments of cold wolves rocking in the waves of the thames
to the chimes of dead glow before the miles of soft machine street
a removable room
let go’s slamming the bridge with eclipse and a feral smoke in my mouth
on the bald head of a balding eye in the smoke of a music in the friendship of a muddy joy

the dialogue of a head burning down
and i have said to my dreams that I do not dream them
i have seen my black skin turn bronze and red
let my figments go like a magpie rewarding the air life!
and a laughter that reverses at the neck
so the rope fidgets in a figure of eight laying down for his girl

must paint
a relaxing

i’ll be right by your side ms eager

i’ve started to need ten demorol
ten libraries with walls build the moat
enough water to fill my desk, enough parables to turn my day into a bull-frog charming the carpets with its silence;
my dog writes poems with his snout
sniffs bs

he looks up at me
he says
‘put the bowl down mate’
then makes sounds like a whore kingdom
where he’s an undisturbed king

he ages my bs
before my eyes
i run all of my poems by him…

he’s my own off-shore bank account that smells bad
like tinder turning tinder into a smile
of thunder
away from the storms
and into
like a mate and a mate walking across a road
where i saw you and i as a siamese twin crossing
as if there was nothing

a multiplex of ominetic silk pummels down outside
the wards of gale blow easily into my room
i would go down to the river bridge where i used to howl at the geese hello
i would only do so after a good few days
after the geese had built the river into an arcade of melting moor wind
and there was enough time to howl
enough time to look at the water
the channels of black liquid that smell of wild garlic and light

products from the screen install faces in the room, one of the girls
likes bending her foot back forwards over her head, and knocks a Francis Bacon
print of the wall, and i pick you up, and chat with the man near by

which helps this beer go down like a snake drinking a nun
the lady outside in the outback,
the snakes going slow running with elements made of us,
the weekend snakes, the bacteria snakes, the snake of my hand
passing through a shot, and the music that can strip down life
like a hemaphrine judge painting the crims of olive and wine
the minerals of their scream lost in their hammers,
to the birds,
to your feet,
to mine,
to the orchards,
to the yeast,

those i think of now, and calm me now
memorise the bees and i in the easy, easy heat

wood glows easy by the cooker
the easel
takes the paint
always away.


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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