The Waterfall café


Wasn’t in the mood for it all, but hey, life’s a cello. One animal plucks, while the universe sings. The weekend came along, had nothing planned, so naturally, I thought why not dance the hell out of it. I leant into the mirror. Drooling mama, CHRIST cave huhu, in a big big steam dadda! And the week had taken it’s pay. But, since the week had only been built from what I had created, and paid for, I grinned. Shaved my damn head. It’s the only hair cut I have.

I made the shave. And wrote a poem about the shave, before going out:

Where I walk
the trees ask for night
but they only do it during day
like the dreams we think are convicts
and the peace which is more humane than human

I sail all of my ideas down an iliad mouth
and like all people
i recall the journeys to see allies
as supposed to dreams
both our dens will go.

Gotta make sure you get the back parts you know. Gotta hold that razor and do it good.

Then it all hit me, the corridor, the undusted florescent tubes of night, bright, shattering. They reminded me of a God placed inside a long tube. Then. Then the street.

It was a normal night of slow workened pillagers pouring under a cape of smog and night. Some. Were ready too. You saw them. No light extinguished shade in mutual exchange before the deities of ripe advertisements. I sailed away. On an Underground journey made of music. Everyone was a libretto. And. It all came down to the fact, that, without that little world of dance, there was no dance. As clever as we all want to be, the reason the world is in a toaster, is that, there are so few ready to dance beyond themselves.

Stockport gloves in a river bank made of demolition. No. Just Picadilly Circus. Hong Kong likes it when I visit, and calls itself Hammersmith Bridge, where I always walked the long way back from university. It wasn’t a long walk. Me ole lassy used to do it too. Once. A chaos car full of coke heads was driving back, and, they gave me a lift. Wanted to know where the party was at. I got out. They didn’t understand most of what I said, since, the accent goes for a walk after a good day. But, I wished them well. We respected each other, and we departed, like rabid fools of different origin.

Then the street said:

5 hours of boxing, and man
the atmosphere here sweats, i didn’t gamble but the gamble came
and it said: choose your cargo, so
only scrapers know that call, but, time for a change in song
boat down river bird, and away from the call
lassy said: you’re good but wild
i saw how the moon was round
down a dirty old road in the fields
we shed upon those fields

Eventually, we came to a place called animata. Kings Cross. A centre for prostitutes, old poems about rain, and new poems for evening travellers. And animata as in: one part stigmata, other parts animal. Then bow bow bow. Then rise rise rise. I light up a cigarette under the moon. Received a call. Me mate saying that he’s waiting . All of the den is gone. My place in the atmosphere is more wine than hydrogen.

“And I idolise you oh slamming night! Since when we meet our chaos is met!”

Nearly was the after birth, the generation, and cultural bird, whom was so swarmed, that the courtier was Cadillac, and off the train, I miss you like a roulette played on the devil’s thighs, when the stars are amphitheatre, and it is only us, making the types of shadows, which tear comedy from the recalcitrant tapers of horror. And hey man do me a sermon made of dough, we’ll knife leisure and call it memory.

Damn it I said. And wrote a poem, on my plastic phone:

still here
i walk the jobs
you walk the water

Then a few more came. They wanted to know why I wasn’t at my desk. And then we and I, then saw a Russian man running so fast that he became turkish, insane, christian, jew, wet leopard, and Joan of Arc, all in one sprint. I asked his ghost as I walked down Caledonian Road: Hey man, don’t work the night shift. Only trumpets and dance machines were made to whip that fire.

Then it was time to walk to Camden Lock. Should of got off at Camden town. But. There were so many constructions, so many buzzing fools, and days that I needed to drink off before I arrived. Think I got there sometime later. Bones and masquerade were in the river porch. And if you’ve never walked it, from Kings Cross to Camden that is, you should, it’s the type of walk that sings. Of course, you get bad folk in cities, but, the full moon reflecting off the graffitied rivers seems to disperse them. Don’t know why. But if you dance with loose sorrow hate, away, away gunner, and bloom elsewhere, all islands are made of sway.

Made a wheel made from a gas gun city. Just found a seat. Half the walk away from Camden, and just chewed it with the dusty night a while. Idiots explore a gamma galaxy of space. Damn phone going again. My thigh thinks its a pulse. And. For a reason I’ll never know, I just begin to sing. I don’t sing well. I only have one tone. The night burps in many colours. Corralled destinies of mortal baritone, and sometimes, the swans paddle towards you silently, hoping that you might feed them, or be one of them. I share my hands out like a silhouette, and say:

It’s made and lost with hands
don’t let anyone take you away from that
rough hands rough lineage rough work
can’t lie with the hands
you can lie with your mouth
and spectacles of transformation
but hey and hey ho
we’re made of these limbs below our faces
they’re wider than our minds
and all those places we have held.

And then it’s no longer one night but several. I go and walk into a room full of pissed up dancers. Sunday is a good day to kiss. Tomorrow is a banter made of dogs. And finally, a lassy dances near me, me mate no where. Made of sweat. Made of good hard old-school waves of pulsing rhythm. She dances unlike I do. I dance the ghosts away. She dances the ghosts towards. But no matter. There is no room for eloquence in the dance of felidae. We don’t go: Hey, drink? Hey what do you do? We just go at it and slice a line down histories body with our vigour.

I often wonder what became of her. I often wake up beside her. I often, just pull her towards me, in a shatter of darkness and waists, that twist like the apocalypse is made from our blood. The sun is strange. And made from our hibernetic collection of light and woe. My twists are yours. There is nothing in our eyes. We look up as the next flow of obsequious daemons come, flaming between our minds like bonfires weaker than our entwined thighs, and damn, there’s a link.

The wind comes heavy outside. Not as a chill. But in a way that refreshes the spirit. Can’t put this into words, but a poem comes:

Be honest with the night and she’ll be honest with her madness
grow to love the day like a sentient hog, and
we’re all cappos and lightening roasts
which forget that the whale ate moby dick
stood beside him in the storm, said
hey man, how big is this mouth, some of us
took other jobs
the rest
kept on dancing.

And sometimes, when the day job is trying to water me down, I go here. I don’t stay to long. As this is not the way of evolution, and not the way of dance that controls evolution. But I do come back here, neither assailed by the luxuries of time, and never here. And sometimes, when I wake with you, and we edit each others work, editing the sheer gravity of time, we lend each other hope, and I remember, that strange poem we made from ligh:

The shadows are your body
their scent is the many menagerie, of a bar, a room, and our silence
and no matter what the world wants to teach
i am polite
in our apocalypse.

Beyond this, we make languages from dreams. And, mon amie, I walk in the fields again. And, sometimes, when the villages are quiet, you can see a mad man, dancing in the wind.


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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