The Lightening Song (short story)

      The Lightening Song
      René Adams
      7,000 words approx

                                                      “Lamia, you burn at me, I burn at you.”
                                                                                   Jackie Wilson, 1875.

      FREE from the delays of passing numb beacons, a bone jet flies steadily towards an orb in space. Weary, but still manned. Passing through the violent water arrays of a cock-pit made from the soul of many journies, the ship begins to permeate the first layers of atmosphere. Viewing the tertiary moors, once teeming with drake, doe, animal-plants, and all that is alive, glistening herds of jungle life, the remaining tempest strikes from the rupturing fields of cities gone, and the thunder made above the desert swamps.

      And the reasons why NASA sent the pilots so far away flames in their eyes, a reddy fury of cosmotic vitality, focus, and time. Called upon by antediluvian suns, trouble in the dusty after-thrusters, but bringing the jet down to land.
      As dust bowls vibrate around the craft, flawless and expanding scents from the portraits of crumbling Sistine bodies flow across the lifting display, the only vision of time available now, as the pilot’s home, known only as Organia XXIV, crunches below in molasses dream, replying to the ship’s dusty wings with excelling currents and corrosive updraughts.
      Acres of multiplying lava scream in translucent body-waves, lying to the remaining orbits of buildings that christen each other in rising florescent zeitgeisting stems-, a lynx bleeds from its paws, a serpent reaches out from the ocean and kisses the Amazon-, natural pulls of lightening cadavers in the remaining desolation run into a flock mountains, before bursting into infinite hawks beyond.
      Yesterday we made an amulet of the oldest tribes, as I thought about coming home, mad, sane, from so many lives away-, where we met near a nebulae of no name, when my jet, and myself, fly always, although, some ways back around a cherub pissing cool-aid from a fountain in the middle of an imploding dwarf star made of gold, the signal was received for the pilot to return. Listening just right.       Unperturbed by a carrion of rogue ships built from the whispers of the old war, trying to cut my ship down, the officer showed the Undeverna his call sign: a wild belt of striking stars, the embodiment of what he had drilled at the academy before jettison, infused with the force of light, made from the oldest power of dance, burning with titan claws, and the mystery of elements built from the knowledge of his ancestors, tearing apart all external metal in a battery of crimson pulse.
      So now, diving through the orange-zero clouds, as if the planet’s voice is still furious enough to be blacker than deepest onyx, lighter than the last bird setting sail, higher than the last weary black-smith, and at ease with where evolution has taken him, the pilot, Entulé, built from the insanity of the cosmos, flies.
      The world has many surprises in the creeping leeches of its hide now. Wrestling correlations roar, whirs taking the remaining planet apart in levianthanesque mangers, filthy summits, and non-merciful death beds of tattoo coloured wilderness. One weltering flow of draughts, now, from a mountain being inversed into liquidic blood, tries to pull down the bone-ship into a reddy throat of circling stairs, and nearly clogs up the dusty anti-thrusters, taking all of the officer’s training to sing a last baritone hymn in his cock-pit, which is how he commands the controls, communicating with the shameless rising tentacles of the excited well below, holding back from using his call sign, but managing to steer out of the unconscious grip of the obsequious plains.
      And he said: “If they out number you, take off your belt lad, wrap it around your strongest fist, let the buckle hang. Get ready. Ease your muscles. Roll your shoulders. Be light on your feet. Pass all shadows away. Rock to and fro on your toes. Eyes up. Ready stance. Call upon your kin. Your kin will remember you in your darkest blue. I will be with you. My fury will be with you. Your training will see you well. Wait for the first one to lunge, swaaaay my brother, pass this head to one side, then, rain, rain, rain rapid fury down until your heart explodes, buckle into tooth!”
      My father was insane. But hey, give the lighting a name papi…
      He finds a place to land among a remote part of what was once the Northest part of the Alaska Peninsula. Ready for an eternal holiday, but knowing that his ship needs some repairs, and that only the elements can heal it, gathered from a report on the planet, and the instructions which were installed in his genome. He looks up to the hybrid night, long since having known any colour, and taps the processing controls at the side of his helmet, dispelling the illusion of obscuring particles, and once again, sings to his duty, the shape of infinite birds, the sculptures of all animals, making his body replicate in the process, and toasting to the polyvalent art of it all, the high chords, the several dozen ways to refill a ship’s fuel supplies, how to re-build the lightening, and how to dance like you’re alive: Ki-uhp! KI-CLAMOR! In a sharp second: Entulé holds one fist clenched by his chin, his other hand spread out, and laughs behind his visor, before quietening, and showing Organia XXIV his true call sign, bursting into an array of supernovae:
      Dancing with the lance of ten flowing lives, by the crawling, flying, and after-frack denizens of the remaining world wild, burping furrows drenched in oil-slick blood where chapels, post offices, and sky-scrapers that once glowed like eternal cocktails of light stood… I look around and into the steaming wounds of chaotic oceans left, spluttering reversed fossils, from the bed, and from the core that wasn’t meant to be drilled. Pure love, pure fuel, pure now: the best way to fill a dictator’s mind with a peasant’s heart, only so that when we find- what is deep below; fire so many tons of water plus acid 8,000 thousand feet into anything, and you find out eventually.
      (AND you know not to drink the water if even the animals won’t drink it…)
      We now, we interma present, we knives of phosphagen voice, are heady no longer with what diving shard freed us, but mate in what poison spread from farm to farm, possum to banker, open refuse to pond, and through closed circuit city vents. Our blithe power was trapped in the under-stone for good reason. Our millennia in the teeth of each second were each ounce of vitriol and peace in our world, un-inebriated by digging mammal hands, mammal tears, and especially not, a price upon: the worth of our demented particles! A price? Ask the magnetic screams of the Northern Lights lilac and reddy- searching greens their price, and then dismiss it, as the icy night paves sun-gold intercalated with mood-grown white, there, here and there.
      If the music of evolution, was the time we remember, and the forward freed edifice of our body, as our form rises back into the potent world-will sky, then, mammal hands entwine with ricochet swan chords, digging no longer. The cats were the first to know. The ones who were clever enough to beguile our inertia, before, and proto-fire. Always a toast to cats. And then, as all populace slowly growing younger at death, again, like a contortionist’s snake swallowing every bullion, every thought, homogenised, until we think of only like what we see, we create! The world never gets drunk on its own supply. Or at least once, there was a world, and separate wills…
      Loyal throwns, politicians, collected soufflés of non-acting signal men, the sacredity of deviant peace, the warpigs and the banterless summary of: the one way. We were never angels or daemons, science quirks, sprites in the green, gods in the gold or in the turret. Or machines in the ground, all of the damned hands that sought fuel, in all of the city kings and sky queens, made to become flightless planes, nascent menageries that twist into a courtier’s dream within his hand, taking on different forms of poems in the street.
      But so that we don’t start dancing the wrong way: all of the choices which don’t necessarily link, or entwine, but end up doing so, to the batterment of rolled up decimal, sentimental, opaque-flavoured sub-notes rattling death hope rays on a lion’s tongue, being licked by a child before his father pulls him away from the taxidermist’s work, come along too.
      The swaying rouge-tide that swallows the sun’s reflection as it burns in Neptunious blood, speckles of lava-blue chalk and unknown denizen good-byes, hellos in the sway of gravity’s hip, great crevices rising and falling, forming structures from the combined endeavours of unswayed flames clothed in magnetic silk. The wilderness planes ripple with underglowing oil femurs, below the slick, chortling, growling sea.
      It wasn’t the drone planes that led men in their spider-men uniforms away from their desks as they did, or the machines, or the creative diseases spread through pristine cosmopolitan hand-shakes & old back strokes of islandesque dwelling gator-alleys that got us here-, or even the hysteria of aliens having even more indifference to our own planet than us to ourselves, nonsense! Not possible! Or good hardy Krakatoa breasts spewing endless foam up into final disguise of night-, no zombies, nadda, no tectonic plates deciding it’s time for ice in the blue lagoon to begin chosen sterility-, it was the organia inside the instinct, the controlled synchronicities, that finally created a singular sea of harmony, that ended the buffalo, plain & wild, in a tongue burnt by severed sulphur.
      And the rhyme that rolls along the rocky bald beaches now, is so much more greedy than the dutiful palms which placed together the machinery– & the spirit inbetween– and the drive to harvest what is more plentiful than the wolf’s master, from pieces of asteroid below the earth-tongue, the calm without animals, is more like being drawn from the imprinted shadows of the final bombs on the wall, etched words that still appear in strange populae bones in the beach water, forewarning, retreat, forewarning.
      What wasn’t included in the popular script was the fact that harmony suffers like anybody without blood, the same way that vinyl elopes and breathes with and without analogue eating a gramophone… Hog-tied & toe-tied gene pools, overdog without underdog, the family who own the funeral home all drive Land Rovers, and the largest playing field is a metre, about the time it takes one to jump the fence.
      The one way in heaven has always been a dose of hell cut from the balls of a Magritte, shattered against the subway walls of factories forgotten in the country, grown in the eyes of polarised summer, and ripe enough to eat with a tuning fork. But soon, as the animals are tenured with extra doses of salt, and wilderness too… Driven by the electrical lines more than the wind, up from the ground, and laboured into the sappy due like ‘colour of new’, never classic, this silent pallet of desert rolling hum…
      What I despise today is what is thrown back at me tomorrow, in the tumultuous lava-like calm bodies of mountains painted in diamond star crustaceans of fossilised bones, the sea, the art, the wolves, the music, the multiple lives of all life, dip down into a ten mile crater of swirling storm-curd, before rising up in the middle whilst an invisible potter makes a ghost into a pike, and just the same: disperses into calamitous birds from all directions, trying to remember what Earth-Birds look like, and desperately, falling short.
      So the man with a spear in his arms is asked whether the world wanted to choke on microships or the bombs flown between kites back and forth, from child to child, and then back to evolution. But yayeth say a good stretch when there is no-one left to hail a cab, let alone a congregation, the preacher says with eyes big enough to lead each and every ant into white speakeasies without a cab labelled ‘exit’, HO YEAH!
      But we screwed up in creating symbols in the wink of a swan bringing rain, in the stigmata of hail bending a garage door into a face, that, we could screw people gently, without screwing ourselves over eventually-, much more subtle than the obvious wars where we try to endear you with fear, or the celebrations of charity execs toasting with dollar bills instead of tears-, yes, then son of my blood, then daughter of my crown, their births unprotected by our whispered plans, gave us: Organia XXIV, the multiplication of colonies, nuanced according to life, where pilot’s burst into icy flame, where art is not bedraggled by the solemn vows of transmutation.
      Tomorrow with a wince, the warriors that twist and spin without strings, raise into the sky, and parlay in advance with the lightening.
      I was named Entulé, after the particular sound that the last chimerimalles made forming the last chimerifemmes from their hands, all autumn room disasters grown into city blue sweat, all sculptures able to finally relax from the redux swooms of deepening moon curves, and vice-a-versatile, in the open sky-planes of verisimilitudic panther widows giving birth to last cement elements of scientific failure, pristine squalor, burnt parlour gyms of rusting muscle squadrons, fighting in stars made of technology, gliding heroes, waltzing heroines, all gutsy shadows torn out from spirit figures of no not so sullen flash limbic grace! Guns and Rainbows spat from a sewer duct, curved like a president drake, caring only for the porous effects that breathe in generations, not the polluted side-lines of undreamt mechanis flakes, fraking gas warrens in publicités of unprecious dialogue, and to the tree’s disgust…, Cellos learn how to walk like hollow pianos in time, iguanas fall miles from cliffs, growing wings made of heart, paper-made yachts rise up into the monied sun, x and y equals no peace for mating beavers, eating steadily into the dam-less feet of exostrict buildings, images built from siren cars passing by numb mirrors. A flexible board made of history, musk, dance, and the exiles made of dogs fermenting in colossal hills of grain-like opiate whisky thighs & days out of character buzz-saw/etc.
      So in time, so by the skeletal forms rubbing below, the high silent waves above, inside the old cities, on top of cities, on top of cities… This voice is sent back, surpassing the cosma belch decay, before or after you decide to pinkle your earth-quake-jacket with $ sighing punch ups named: frak, vertical earth-train desmosome down, pieces of a green, Alaska smile, shattered by clock-work tentacles.
      But we can still gamble, and traverse all this.
Power cuts calling up storms from place to place, planets, calling all skewers to retreat, since the apocalypse was meant for serene harps & guitar-, the sea licks at all amateur sculptures, purrs up the loins of the rocky pretences, and jumps away just as we come. Weave into the sea, weave into liquid, the swimmer’s great regret: the orange-dawn tulips of craters spreading outwards from atom storms, new and skeletal, like hypertrophic twins sat side by side, bred to say nothing, homogenating in every voice that exists-, no fraking, is a whelp that: once shielded us from stupidity, disorderly religions, gates that clack twice before shutting, sneering battery film-makers, chirping if no-one buys their films, since they themselves understand their worth, and equally, the ripe unsettled wars of the pulse that drives the clay, the clay which has no colour, and teaches the light to dance on the cusp of a titanium pen, the ink of water-lilies flowing away from a peach sized trinket, and the hang-over made from not paying attention to it all.
      Not the good old kind. Percolating just enough so that the world is a frosty bite from a passing parade, or the kinds that have only soft menace in the rain, but the haggling elements kind. November hand me back fire-works kind.
      Shinning into the neon moon back the pulsatas of organia, data, curtains made of sand, how to fund the wings of a burning flag, the ash of psycho-gowns whipping around European nations, untouched wombs in nether parts transmuted into what they deserve: more peace, then a matrix made of femurs pulled from one continent-, the ulnas from streets that turn into the fields, then back into a city made of skin, then back from the mirage: nats, smokey eyes, solid bust, waterfalls that bask in the auditorium of suffering July, and finally, when all animals realise that they are free to pass away soon, as our freed gas infiltrates all discussion, we snatch the bone, we snatch the metal, and we surround the orb in a second– chaos is a sec, learned is a gasp, music makes friends, writing needs a room without a pulse.
      Of course: the machines rioted with black pupils in their lust for order, clothed in black…
      And of course: men and women wrote poems about the differences between East & West rainbows, wrote knives into bullets– a mask for me, a gun for you– writing death into love, and drawing polarised lots from the mess: the pulse was always controlled,– by us –, like a leviathan mating within the colour of time, a toxic embrace, made only for the stage, and not the tertiary world-wild with laughter-wild, at four legged, no-hooved, palindrome syndicates of life, shatterers unshattered by the shadow! The animal being that can calm the Hebredian wind, as it flows steady, crashing ships into automated nets of fur, fire-fly bruises in the horizon, then swirling again into terra-clean limbs spreading in the stars of so far away creatures, leather bound poem athletes, trajectories of melting friends, better than night clubs full of questioning lips, none of them perfumed enough to be yours, or tight in your still face, enough to wear a dress, enough to shush the slobbering sun with a finger.
      We look into the organ of what we have now, and spread back the red geese of the cosmos. And ask only several questions of the populate gone, that may save this world from this homoeostatic sigh, only two doves will do, as long as, they are real doves, and not the kind that can be shot.
      Time travelled by the will of the present, time travelled by the will of the season… So the sonata day flows… Where we all gamble with the cosmos, and find ourselves in London, with two that have chosen each other as mate, and as I am changed back into a man named Jackie Wilson, now, still writing those damn crazy poems, lassy and I walk through the streets, and if only they knew what we gamble upon them, and why they brought me back…

      Gina stares into what she feels is a masterpiece of a final architect’s sketch.
It has everything from the first scratches of an idea, around the base, soft 2B pencilling, up and around the whole bum idea like a flock of ink spiking down when she was called upon for a cocktail, then heavy heavy in parts when she was hungover in charcoal. And then the inclusion of the night before, oh hey! Turnaround Gina, you got drunk, -now be sober- ,now be the one that they pay you to be: Show me the dicing curves, that’ll survive, under-cuts down into the harpsichord linguistics of mathematics, that’ll hold ten thousand tons of palladium years…
      Gina looks around at the cheap attempts of art hung on her office walls, hung with other minimal surrealist portraits, before reaching down into her purse and taking out her e-cigarette.
      Ten past ten.
A good time to watch the night go down and the city scream with dulled out honks and lights outside, and also, to be doing over-time, with her boss, Tony.
      Tony Benjamin.
      At least half the office would pay in nine lives of servitude to have him speak to them, directly, never-mind wanting him to have: you. Which Gina knew he did.
      It was a professional want, of course.
      Same thing.
      Signals different to the pack-talk, but all the same anyways.
      A way of sketching “Well done!” on a hot cup of Stardoe’s mocha, and leaving it beside her draft station, at exactly five minutes before she entered the building, to say: I own the clock, I own the mockery of the clock, and all of the things in between.
      A promotion to ‘Head of Architectural Ideation’ was like being offered the keys to your own creative will, to a serious role you were trained in, and something you could die dancing just talking about. Gina looked into her four month sketch of the Millennium Dome, and wondered if it just looked like a bowl that a child had dropped upside down and stuck straws into – NO! – it looks great! Just calm ok, calm calm…
      I’m going to make it with this one! This one! And I can take Max with m-

      Ah… You can’t turn editing into a profession unless you’re willing to take it.
      You certainly can’t get down to the dirty life of shmoozing if you spend all your time in a wet suit, swimming between England and France. You probably can. The written work can wait, the publishers can wait, the financers can wait, Max thought as he showed off his butterfly-stroke and cut down the last few hundred meters to shore. Cutting it down with a passion beyond love, where, beyond us, they have only us – no art – and, animals have no humane voice in the wet sea mouth at 9.59 pm. The swim and the health of swimming lived in his muscles like an antidote for the media.
      A paparazzi of eager-jeans damp to the knee cameras took shots as Max rose from the sea, choking and laughing, and swinging his arms across his chest like it was nothing.
      Upload a dozen videos of the editor who doesn’t edit, the writer who swims rather than works, the social media channel’s darling who edits from each limb sweating through water rather than placing arsehole in seat.

      “I… Miss you Max.”
      “Hey honey are you there? I mean have you-”

      “And when discloser comes back down to us fools, we march on and march! But, do you like our band’s sing song? TEN Moorlamia functures on her mating with boss! Hak!”
      “I raise you all of my homeling caricatures!”
      “I will task all of my cathedral thunder electrocites to praise your church if you give me credit!”
      “ζLEÐΞ say the wondering oak women of the mechanis-laissez!”
      “Need birth, need birth does this: Bet!”
      The voices of Organia XXVI said in reply, as a lake of new limbs began to encircle a lone pilot somewhere in time, beside his ship, as he holds his stance, and whispers weapons to them, fighting automatically in the mist.
      Entulé holds his post. Unknowing that he is a grunt, but knowing his movements down to perfection. As the clamouring rifts surrounded his client’s heart, he snatched osmotically at the different darts that shot at him – one dumb dream looked liked Gina praying that Max had been born as Tony, so that she could be happy without denying nature; that world melted as Entulé swiped his rigid fingers through it, and as a carnival of never-night devoured itself into silent butterflies again; which made him cackle his eon-long laugh, but still somewhat, depleting him for his efforts. Although, the motivation to not fly at all, is so much more depleting Entulé thought laughing to himself, and a semi-novae burst agreed in the distant night space. Re-forming, Entulé sunk low into his haunches, holding his hands open for the next incoming attack, staring up at the cosmos, and flicking his vision around Organia XXIV, for any new doubts that may come, at war with the planet as it was, but contracted by an organisation that paid.

      But none of the words would come.
      And in truth, Gina hated Max.
      She hated that he was an athlete and made her feel something instead of the city.
      The depth of that feeling came with the chaos of both their buildings, their potential lives, and days without sleep, the floor rolling with bottles of vintage wine, and the windows barking no more to one body being pushed face forwards onto the balcony glass than another-, flesh smothered and spread, breathing steam & grace, then turning, I4U, darlin’, asking the pusher to relax, kissing the pusher’s face, puller nursing the force’s fire in, then turning it all around.
      The tar-mac bright cars shone heavy up from the street, permeating their flat with coliseums of light, even though they lived on the upper floors.
      The last London sun was gone many days ago. The elevator pinged open. No partners in space apart from the lost. Of course, it was the boss. Gina stared out of the window and continued to weep, wiping her face and looking around, as she heard Tony’s foot steps through her head-phones tap behind her on the white marble coming towards her.
      “Hi, oh er, oh shit, sorry!” She said, checking her eyes, her hair, and trying to smile.
      “It’s alright, you cool?” Tony said. Always the same heavy monotone drone, (no real question, no: “Are you cool?”).
      “Sure, I… Ha, I…” Gina said returning to work, and re-focussing on her sketch.
      “Looks great.” He said standing with his hands in his pockets, “You know it’s midnight don’t you?” He added.
      “Christ… I just get so, lost fuck… Ha, sorry…” Gina said, taking a deep inhale from her e-cigarette, the pride of already being Head of Architectural Ideation plumeing in her chest, making her forget… “Oh FUCK, sorry, I’m sorry, ahh, I just…” She started to say realising she was smoking.
      “It’s ok. Christ isn’t here.” Tony said with a smile, without sound.

      Max slammed the cab door shut and walked to the cabbie window bare-foot still dripping.
      “I’m so, so sorry! I’m going to give you an extra £50 for the cleaning, will that be enough?”
      “Oi mate, don’t give me that bollocks, I know you, you’re a fucking legend, you’ve just done the Channel three days in a row for animal shelters haven’t you? I’m not gonna take fuck all off you, my nephew bloody loves you! Can I have a quick snap? Here-”
      The cabby takes out his new phone. The new ‘silhouette grip’ Typhon.
      (‘Matching your grip to your apps, and your mind to connectivity!’)
      The pink florescent window covered the cabbie in a dead glow, highlighting his fat features, his sweating ripples, and excited digits, working below the glare of his double lips, searching hungrily for a charm in his hand-held toy.
      “Here we go, here we go!” He said finally, shoving his arm out from the partition and motioning for Max to come around for a photo, while the driver stayed in his seat, making it look like one man was slicing another man’s neck with a selfie.
      “Faaackin hell… Oi- Faaaa” The cabbie said taking his phone away, and looking at the photo, “You’re my bloomin idol mate- you’re my fackin’ uhhh…”
      “Thanks.” Max said, holding the money out.
The cab drove off, waiting only for the reaction from the throttle, as opposed to any more foreplay.
      Max dropped his wet bag of kit on the ground, and thought about checking the time, for the first time in a week, kneeling down, and unzipping the side compartment.

      The Millennium Dome builds and unbuilds.
      Gratuity stolen in the whizzing sweat-lights of the city’s construction, mating in the pale over-drafts of the Underground’s sickly warm air ducts, below, where we: eat-each-others-breath, above: where the darling Gina, and one of the finest examples of the machine’s skin: Tony, walk down a street, dirtier and cleaner than two opposing minerals trying to fight for: the best idea, the best action, but somehow slowed by the truth of taking each other apart soon. The city wheels are lamplets at midnight, burning by the hand in hand pastures of wine eyes & cabin betraying Waterloo.
      London gratifies and curses the trains, as gangs pile into the river. Demand and hold up the stranger in tongues built from broken English, as plucky silent night says enough, and thieves are rewarded in spit from the full force of indomitable fury, outnumbered. A group of thugs lean in and around a citizen on a West Coast train, heading back to the city, but, without Gina’s balls. Our sinner man today is a gent from elsewhere. More preeming tattoos than ready Argonaut. In fifteen years time he will be three stone heavier, many more times angrier, and quite capable of sorting 6 thugs, or more in a bedsit, after a bottle of vodka, but for now, a fellow commuter’s ears pick up.
      “Oh I don’t fucking believe this…” Gina said, staring directly at the group of give-a-way rats surrounding the commuter on the train, now howling for his phone.
      “Gina.” Tony said grabbing her arm as she began to make up her mind on action, “You can’t. There’s too many.”
      In that second, there was no scufuffal, no sound, just a pair of eyes. Dull black with glass behind the skull. No face.
      Another moment passed.
      Gina watched what she warred with each week, namely, thinking about going back to Tony’s place, the serene peace, the pleasures of being away from Max. Then being with Max. And in that shining twitch of light, at the edge of a stagbeetle’s horns, Tony’s attraction, fluttered away.
      “What?” Gina said, before ripping Tony’s hand away from her arm, “Fuck off then! (fuck- privatised- bollocks- I know what Max would do-)” She added, mumbling to herself the real things that pissed her off involuntarily, just to build up her pluck, whilst walking towards the group of thugs and material, rioting on the train, at her 60kg, plus Max’s strength.
      It felt like a morning with Max. Something bad. Like a lobster painted the wrong colour. And a lone fisherman & girl talking to their catch over the horizon, as lovers are the way that memories and days are: hard as hell, pounding the boat with smooth oars of carrion disgrace.
      #Strange. How quickly many of the planet we knew as Earth, realised that much on the planet were of different blood. This is now the only thing that brings me temperance in the orchid wail of bids, that come from our grace, and from the words without words, the orchestrat conclusion of flowing grail sea shall have more strikes! I Bid more! I Bid my own essence in these two!——– I speak to their wills alone, direct them, and shield them, as the parts of their nature which are born in one singularity, remember that, and give each other the strength of life.
      And by the pylons remaining in the world swaying around the pilot, as the planet played with past technologies: Entulé, finally, saw that the only way he could chaperone his current form into a force that could help his clients was: to pass his force into them; so showering down from random rain, closing his eyes behind his metallic visor, he sang a deep long aiding song, that began to pulse in Gina’s will, and transmuted his life into hers.
      And the clock of all watchers turns up its kelvins, tearing sensations away from the heat, giving them back to one organ, one who is. And rides ghost high up. Crow in sensation of dog.
      Heroes of time in the genderless ménage et fluidic ride. When one of us calls to go back, when a part of the woven flock gasps at the 4D images we bid upon for humour, instead of just assailing our marionettes with our multiple desires, it causes great pain in the one organic body, because mainly, we know that the sentient separate dies; like mitochondria taken from the body of a greater turning thug, nails, dug into the face of one attacker, taking away the mask.
      But, if I am to choose two professionals in a world of departing dogs, I have grown used to their individual paws, the hereditary acceptance of their skills, as the eternal architect who mates with an early chimerimalle, and does not spawn! I enjoy how they make bread, I look at both our hands, and see once more, Organia XXIV, our planet, now.
      I go to where neither Max or Gina can be, so to summon last panther’s upon the world, which is what a pilot becomes, in a rush of swarming country, which is where Max let Gina know he is from, and had taken her, but had never been able to show her. Like padding mud, and otter prints, and rolling stags in the fields, that which gives me steam when my instruments are bleeding, I give myself to this by-way, that is theirs. Shuttle south by dune, shackle up and down the unlocked country, a man walks the moors. The smell of hay, over his shoulders, tall, wearing a black blazer. Day sun. Laughing out loud like a laugher laughing away the night. The years and seconds before my – and other – kinds, took over.
      Long is the sigh of the marching autumn wind.
      The whip in the antennas of the overhead electric highways, rusting, silver, metal, thin, filthy gods, without vitalia, or the means to feel rage without tempered geese flying in loose arrows overhead. Hands in pockets. A dot walking across black in last night’s whiskey red. A plod, a gallop, a waltz. The meaning of the sorrow moors without reason.
      The ability to see the river breathing phosphorescent vapours from its dusky tithe. Settled down, kneeling as that vapour, and then taking flight as a kestrel, into ∞ arcs of hunting song, before slicing the pattern with its wings, and making solemn, respectful, lasting jest with the owls, then, dropping from the sky into the ground, as gravity does when alight, finding each and every worm, scattering up in a small muddy hill of soil, the mole’s whiskers, twitching, the hands of a silent madman, hung at his sides, lighting a cigarette, calling out to the swans, the worthless jobs, the age of youth, that line his frame in chorus, tepid only when roused by the sight of otters, as brought in from the North Sea by a remote storm, and doing as otters do, half swimming amongst the reeds, half wondering who I am, drinking and smiling with me. And in a gust, I stand up and scream, S.e.u.l.e.m.e.n.t La Chimère! Not because I will ever be employable! But because the journey back was not as Organia XXIV had told me! There is no pain in my hands, there is no wildness in the garlic that crunches flowing out in the ripe permeating stench of the forest, an unchanging swim of musical snow now takes me for miles on, where I laugh again at my feet, my only reason for unseriousness in what good it’ll do me!
      And finally, Hammersmith station London.
      The day is drugged, the sky is drugged, the city is unplanned. And it lets Gina know this as it rolls down the train’s window at 6.59am. Too early to miss Max. And too early for me to swim today, Max thinks to himself, watching a strange steam cross over the horizon of the Channel Sea.
      “Going for it again then? Ready?” His PA asks him, recording his preparations as he readies himself at Brighton Beach.
      On roads of the apex wind, where we are truly built by the resonance of truth, the novelists understand us as infinite curving razors, the farmers as the diligence to crucify any who would steel their equipment, the honour of Jaguars eliciting calls to the lightening, side by side, in reaction to the names of all gods, all carpenters, all synonyms for the parrying of chaos, the ruptured, ripe, convalescence of learning a trade, not by leeching off your own blood in short-cuts from the vein, but in offering fealty posed as time transmuted from experience, into fire, into silence, into baritone plus the ocean’s periodic trust, the type that brings you back from the water, having already swam it, and preferring to use your time to transform your life into a gift from nature, and passing that to your partner without expecting a payment, speaking without checking your words, and trusting the growl of your own vitality.
      “It’s a long day in the ocean for me today George, can you call me up a shatter of roses? Can you remember where that person’s name is from the Tate modern? I need to see Gina.”
      Accustom to the man’s straight way of talking, and the art of being able to understand a friend, Max’s PA just nodded, and said, ok.
      By roses I meant will, by PA I meant proto-night, by Gina I meant Max, and by Tony I meant that all of the coffee shops are shut today. Deep under hooded cap, bewildered, a girl stares over at Gina, as the train approaches Bond Street station, leaning over to tap her on the knee.
      “Oh! Oh right! Thank-you!”
      The smile of knowing a commuter’s path, even though no names are ever exchanged.
      “Are you- You’re that woman aren’t you?”
      “What? Oh do you mean, ha!” Gina says, trying to work out how to reply.
      Millions of destinations apart, but breaking conversation over their mutual like for Samson tobacco, Gina and the girl walk down regent street, swapping everything over the roar of the street, even though their accents, attire, and banter say that they have very different jobs.
      “Well this is my drop-off,” Gina says, looking gloomily through the reception window into her building, “hopefully my boss won’t try to fuck me today…”
      “Shame!” Sharday replies, thrown off, holding her hand over her mouth, “Your boss? Don’t lie!”, she adds when in control again.
      “Oh I’ll tell you about it another time, hey, what’s your name by the way? I’m so sorry! I’m crap with names…”
      “It’s cool, it’s Sharday, call me Shards.” The shop assistant replies.
      “Shit, I’ve got to run, do you fancy… Look, we’ve got this gig going on later at the Tate, come down, free wine and bull-shit.”
      “Ha, jokes! K, k…” Shards says accepting the invitation.
      A bird, a cougar, a supple mass that can dance into any shape. The street. The universe’s spring. The place where heaven grows its stripes. Outside, in the mortal grips of screams, the raven dances the immortal dance, and a man slowly walks towards his ship, before jumping several meters into his cock-pit, and laughing about something crazy, bringing the fuel relay parameters up on his display, with instinctual commands, bred from the future’s maritime destiny, firing out the multirole thrusters, and getting ready for departure manoeuvres.
      Working like a rabid saint until his body is covered in acrylic clay, I shape for Max a collection of swans, within the power of his mate’s exhibition. Gina takes out her head-phones. Unplugs each one taking the strawberries out from the applauding havoc. And hears David Bowie more than the news. Entulé wonders where he and his bone ship will travel next, and in the solemn gusts of reversed gravity, says farewell to Organia XXIV, the planet with no name. Below, the planet continues to paint, learning new, and better ways of using colour:
      Gestalt blue.
      Haemorrhage red.
      Say the cosmos.
      Built upon the experience of islands formed in stella rage, coral museums freed from the opposites of Lavinia: Alcibiades, and new names: Ballius, made from the art of growth, the shattering Sapien, in all that disconnects, the only rage calm enough to dance like a machine sent back from the war, and to snatch the light, and to snatch the roulette vessel, thy swift bones of life, tequila and smokes, no menthol for me…
      The entrance of the Tate is built from the time Gina has put into combining her sketches with Max’s pillar high sculptures. Automated, so to keep the terracotta movable, the projected animals dance, promoting the contract that they both work on, against the intrails of the normally blank walls. Surrounded by the clamour, as if protected by art, blooming high and low in their body, several denizens, are joined for life, and have no shadow in their heart.
      Ten past two comes as the owls sever the night with their call through the city, and nothing is alive apart from the heroes of heroines, and even the London Underground is silent, the Thames is rapidly calm, tomorrow, today, and before, is a walk that shines from Westminster bridge.
      “We should work together more.” The violin of a dusty busker says, playing on a peer stretching out over the river, as the couple walk silently through South Bank, and the beggar poet, Jackie Wilson, smiling within the blue-black water, says, putting down his violin for a moment, watching a couple walk towards The Tate, early in the day, laughing at something, then picking up the damn thing again, and playing another violent song for his comrades.
      “This one’s for the lightening!” He says, chin nuzzled in, tearing apart the river, playin song for lass.


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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