The Never Thief

All strangers, all lovers
René Adams
4,930

Aye & aye, ha! I must get this one down before tomorrow. I don’t know where British summer has gone. But the words are easy tonight. I have neither kin, nor name, nor shadowless marionette, perhaps allowed, perhaps swarmed. Perhaps just a few days. The darkness may call my prose above, yet, all they really are are the conversations that I have had with the river. I swim with a bottle, let it go, then backstroke. All of the behemoths that we imagine are within this river. My thought was to swim to the other side. My limbs move through such night.

I shouldered this once, and then, quickly we swam into each other. The sea was something that I could never describe. But it was something made from my knuckles, and perhaps your musk. All life about your musk. All fours of a punch striking alone. And. It all started when we danced. Although I’ll be honest, it started with your voice. Heavy. Near mine. Near moon silhouette. But hell. I’ll end here. Just lite a cigarette. K. Something like this. And, we are just one poem. The writer? Hang the git! Haha! Always! Ah, alright. K. I’ll take that back tomorrow.

Well I have no where to begin, no where to end. Hmmm… Whipped and unwhipped as all fighters say. I have a decent job, no HELL, I love my damn job. One of those ones aye//. There’s a small rattling LAKE! Ah, and if, I reckon we’ve got enough here for a short short story. K, we’re coming, all of the silhouettes are departing… And, there’s gonna be something, either ways! Ha, before dream. No one goes home haha. And most of this is played beside music. But you know, like God and the Devil said: “Hey, we don’t always fight!”

K lets go.

Haha!

Shall we damn all petals before tsunami…?

Nah////

Our shadows meet.

Somewhere inside a city.

Any of them. Do me a volcano of still quietness.

I know the armpits of strangers more than I know myself. This disgusts me. Locomotion locomotion locomotion. Fuck I feel bad. I’d just scream a little, and let all the dance go. There’s the snow. There’s your lips outside of the carriage, 7 years ahead.

9am, 8am.

I arrive to work on time. For once inside many lives. Stroll in, imagine it all ending with a smile. My hips and shoulders in a tailored suit. Style and death are the same thing. I resist not to be an animal for 6 months. I alight humour because I am not here. Most nights are bound to lassy gone. Most nights are within the conundrum of the city, but I, would never bore you with all that jazz, haha.

The streets meet me with nil life as ~I disperse many times. Already got the tunes ready. I’ll say that Liverpool Station is a sway away from shadow… Movement. I name this walk sway, I sway I sway, slap! I hear a drum in a plane moving over head. But love, why did you go with a mad-man in the first place?

It rains. As I walk home. Perhaps we are attracted to what livens death?

Then go.

In our desert, in our city, in our country, we dance alone deus.
………………………………………..

In zero cell. Locked up for another time.

I just did what all animals do falling – – – just danced.

The thin blue mattress was a dance. I didn’t waste my knuckles on the door. I just moved one shoulder, then the other shoulder. Then my 20’s went. My bones stopped. My balls said forwards. I began to dance heavier, not lighter. And travelled by arrow heart. Still highway, still limbo. You can outrun coppers and trouble, but not DNA. Then it got heavier. I go.
I go.
I go.
I relate heavily with only one love, she is meine penumbra, and perhaps, where this story transpires. Can’t change nothing without dance! Who said that? So lucky that this narrative is about dance. I am still heavy with all black rooms bursting. I pull in your tum, to my tum, our feet move. Ach! Why wern’t you in my mind when I was furious?

Now all we do is move limbs. Although now, at last, we are not marionettes, we are dancers.

Our charms buck the iris and applause easy, where our bodies stretch the sun.

Our feet move over the soil, your scent and my own.

And now we make our own poems, your hip flaws mine, my legs swoops upon yours.

Just two ashy pearls reflecting each other.

Smashing the light.

Some of us begin being human, some of us end.

We create elements beyond the table.

Our muscles whip around in darkness departing from each other. Eyes upon orchids, tearing soil from pearls, other surrealities, lions licking hell from each other. But never the eye missing a drop of rain, as each drop is Jesus knocking over his beer. It all comes down. Lets run out in the fields, mon deus vixen!

Wide Autumn.

We walk by a bare Horse Chestnut tree. A twig from a branch scratches across my head. It’s an apolocalypse moon, our treads depart into birds, it becomes the 5th season. And if the final strike is from our waltz, your knuckles will be still, soft and painted by good hawks, tearing organ from organ.

Mine’ll be in the coal, pounding, maybe looking up from Pluto every now and then, as you fly across the exosphere. Where baby, you know I am, I sometimes in the morning feel disgusted by my worker mind, and then welcome the chaos of your welcome dream, beacuse at least here, we dance away from your ideas about me, indulging, then calming, my hands upon you are ferocious, oh dear.

My eyes are cataract and bloody, the dust of diamond filth, lighting them inside space.

No-one says that. Lets just dance. My balls your legs. Just saw Krakatoa in your eye, you maybe saw the way that my bones move on my heel – this music – oh how delightful, we are the pulsing simmering snakes that are not charmed, unless, love is the chaos admittance that we can only be one briefly. But damn it when I am dust. The worms will be eating a heady cocktail of us.

Azure inside red
Azure inside red
Azure…
I
Have only growls
and your
sweating
poems
beyond here…

Several hornets mating in lava.

Inside this opal life.

Then a ghost more familiar with flesh than spirit, brings hammer down again and again. Love: cosmos bleeds. All jesters flicker away in burnt particles of flame.

Busting all lanterns, as the hammer does, as the machine does its tears, slam slam slam! As the saliva of flesh never can.

A wholesome day made of dance. I lay back upon, roll with the sun, in the corn, no longer mining on a distant planet. The big tip of night’s rain, chaos and flesh. As the dirt is our body, red fire-fly morning forgotten, moving above the sea, where our boat moves out, among blue hands, where eloping octopi casually grab, from time to time, easing our boast of partnership.

All swimmers are lost, change your limbs into howls!

All bayonets weave in the guts of sun first, bringing back shadows unable to scream.

The stars smash together bringing snow, and there are no seasons for life, only the sullen connections of our waltz.

Burning of all flesh.

Elections among rib-cage parties that dissolve mistrust, slaying the world vena cava, dismissing each disappearing salt.

We’ll wait until it rains again, or at least, where Pluto shapes our limbs again into words.

Sculptures walk away into the mist.

Swaying nothing but storm, clay, shape, dance, and the odour of laughter, which far more than my thoughts, is what we are made from.

It’s a dancer’s day.

But hell.

Aren’t they all?

Mon chere?

Ma chimère?
………………………………………

“Never take apart a dream, because the pieces will still be there. They’ll just be different to what you know.”

Mandolin really thought he knew what his Father meant, when he said this to him.

He thought he knew many things.

Even though he did strange things, in the darkness of his small home, each moon, sun, decibel of summer, contortion of limb, d i s l o c a t e d. Floozy tricks inherit dreams. Awful wine yards full of opal bones. Rebel toes able to disappear. Half a crow yesterday, full moan elapse because the shore-line is too far. Sorrow oil covered in skin. Then the type of puke that makes you feel full where others are sleeping .

He discussed this with the bad angels as he pushed a drugged piece of cotton into the thief’s mouth, and thought about it again… Licking his own finger, what was he doing? Why was he loyal to the bug of day…

Perhaps you were lost when you said this? Perhaps there was no more than meteor in your heart? Old man? Youngan! In old tongue of dust!

And then he lost the meaning again. In the barn, which crossed as a large rectangular pottery shed, and prison, rather well. The long beams reaching up into a thatch roof worked well as resting posts for trespassers and the like. Bound up heads tied across the neck, feet, hands. The stench of wood, piss, shit, and old hay, enough to reverse each God.

Mandolin.

His name didn’t work. A sophisticated, lightly spoken, gentleman, could be called Mandolin. A person whose hands were never red, were never violent, were never commanded, were never blunt, could be said to be this name.

But the cosmos was ever-tame, and somewhere, there was a growling sound.

Just ropes worked in the darkness, around limbs that had long been over-powered. Perhaps by Mandolin. All labyrinths twist which do not defect from animality, as such do the steps through fields of pearl barley, commuting humbleness between wind and thatch, thy ever-dog glowing red, in each corner of yellow black hymn, passive green during day, harsh knife during dusk.

Thrash a lake into turbines of blood, turn the distant hydro-electric whatever windmills into white, they were not here, when I was younger. And when it all becomes a day, I walk the day within the coarse fields of my home. Surrounding. I am a city man, country, redder than photosphere, where all lilac and danger is a song. The lights are moments of pain, remedied by mortalities attitude towards civilness. Et nos unum sumus in hoc scelere.

Night turned the crops surrounding the barn into fields of molasses lake. The swans were welcome to mate, the stags and does ran stampeding silently. And also, the smaller creatures burst too, dancing in their own way. Several storms ago… The way limbs are never separate, and, just a bust up 3am night, black as shit, but universe saying among the river and I, give up when you’re dust. Been bad many years inside a day, all the coast reeds and woods washed up into the local rivers. Just smoking.

Then, some strange play in the obsidian water… Several heads, and then damn otters have come to smoke with me. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen them. They’re crazy. Monogamous. But fisherman and fisherwoman. And this was my soul. Smooth, moving among the heads under the river, more silk than animal. Working together, below and among, a damned sky.

Or so the joke goes along… Where in the fields up is down to us, only the city’s architecture has time, since all of the stars which create graffiti are not in our hearts, but in the way we dance, madness eclipsed by strike, shatter shattered back by Absolom rage! beneather, beneather, beneather, Cadillacs pulling up beside Range Rovers across pebble dash stone, none of our tongues able to create an engine, apart from the thieving parts of silk, that uniform our organs, making this strange fiction, here.

A drunken man once crossed a wooden bridge, and saw something from the corner of his eye. No corners. Only stars, open stars, the kind that have only beauty and darkness in one light. There were craters in the moon where the sun licked. And a lass with brown eyes. The looked back and smelt no salt in the warmth of night, but saw on the bridge, a small friend. A frog. He asked around the trees to see if he was crazy. And as always, they said, you have no harm in your heart, so, do what you wish. So the drunken man took a few steps back and knelt near the frog, as it too looked up.

And what would you say? Ha, but smile.

And there was a leap into the forestry, as well as a man walking at nearly 4am.
……………………………

Mandolin would farm them until he dropped, if his master wouldn’t damn his ghost for dying so.

And the giant gardener – come always executioner – lived in this way, dumb, under the veil of stories that his employer gave him. His long nails, past two inches, all caught up with blood and soil, fur, life, filth – encircled him around his head, connected to his overgrown arms, like a foetus bred from an earthly grown Jupiter, sometimes twitching. Moaning. For what? Fire-flies near his brow perhaps, where he sweated, and tomorrow was yesterdays collapse. Even the hay wondered why the giant rolled around upon it. As if, as if… But the hay, having only one spirit which they shared eternally, never frowning or delaying their own role, knew the giants woe, and wrapped around him when he was asleep.

It was mostly the land-owner who drank all night and even make his past-lives drunk. The crops swirled outside of his wooden mansion hut, they had the swirls of mad men and women doing what they will relentlessly, with style, all greeny black haired, all night cosmos laying down blowing, swirling, mind of mine mind of you wheat, a storm perhaps, belches.

“Get the **** out of my house you leeches!”

Sick of the well tempered and sickly appeasement offered to him by his peers: The land-owner would stand on the steps of his porch, screaming, drooling – as there was no-one to speak against his scream – and look drugedly over at the shack where Mandolin lived, smiling. A dim and nasty smile. Scratching, licking, swaying, touching himself as the moon shone over his house, not entering, but contorting itself – in an arc over – wishing to have nothing to do with his howls. The man looked up at the looping moonlight and laughed. Even the moon wished to miss out his house, and leaped over. One tooth said:

“Tsɕʓ TseɚɶϮϿ”

And the other, the other tooth that is, the one on the left, just stuck out.

There was some coffee and cacao planted in the fields. Mass areas of potatoes and quinoa, as well as his main prized field, which was bare, and the land-owner called his: Orchid field.

Only in the night, the land-owner would decide to parlay a little with his worker Mandolin. Sometimes asking the mute where he was from again, although, Mandolin, or Mando, as his master called him when drunk. It was too easy to replace the heads of the leeches of his business partners and dregs with his dreams. They just nodded. Scared that Mandolin’s sweating lips would be near them soon. Where, the land-owner’s personal guard, black Golem, obsequious damnatis, and plague man, had no such bow in his understanding. Through the years of intoxication, by all the vials of death available to a luxuriante mad-man, this was stimulating to him. To know a man whose eyes matched his skin, and whose mind was closed, yet, in some way, interested in his master’s drunken words.

The thief woke up.

Eyes smashed. Bruised up. Oversized Mars drums from the two slaps that Mandolin had given him when he caught him in the fields. One big east. One big west. Moving a fly head from side to side in the dusty reeds, enough to knock the sun off-balance, or at least, that’s how the impacts felt. Things had been bad before for Thurlun. Through the bloody stream from his eyes, that asked his wrists to wipe them away hopelessly, the thief saw red fleshy shadows in the barn where he was tied. Mostly the pulp from his own eyes, where things were cracked and tight, bound, and singing for him to let go. His first instinct was to try and move his feet, before he did this however, he closed his eyes with a smile, and prayed to the God of theives, whom he knew, was always on the run too, if not in the same position as himself.

“You keep kicking like that, they’ll here, know you’re kicking…” The black red said.

“Are yours loose too?” Thurlun whispered back immediatley.

“No. No need. Mine are broke.”

“It’s ok. Where I’m from, we dance in these ropes, these are snakes I can charm!” Thurlan said gurgling through his tied neck. Choked laughter hurting.

“…Damn thieves… Go easy couyon, I fais do-do…”

Hey was you name? The thief asked, knowing he would get no reply.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of the last story, where he was a ghost and a snake laughing at the charmer, and, hoped that his God would be here, or at least that figment of greed that dances still, inside his soul. He asked him to stop in whatever air he was diving through, and be still in the cosmos, so that they may speak to one anther, as lowly to higher thief. He swalled some spit and blood, and asked the bile of his stomach to cherish it, ha!

Burnt buggered cat of ten lives, and sorrow dog in the sea
and isle of air where you run, shall I borrow some of your hope
where I must ask for your luck in this sepulchre
so that the blood of my limbs may bleed enough slip
into these myriads of knot, and that when I rise
you give me enough strength to run with this shadow
man as well, and that our furies match one life, to slay
to dance! To move! To nip and rustle! To untie! To unrestrain!
To say darling to darkness, my eyes blind!

The Thief sat bound mumbling the prayer again and again, for many hours, until the sun was ready for his exhaustion. The sun was a booming plant, close to the small parts of the dust-shattering the dusty windows above them. And after his eyes closed up fully, reacting unwell-the Thief alerted them, as the moon once again gathered another day of time, and there were only the mad things between animals, life, humans, time, glow, blood, infringing death, and the barn to live by.

Death knocked on the barn doors, just to be polite.

It sounded like so many hail stones easing around the door. And it ended Thurlun’s prayer, and it ended the night of his blind vision, scrabbling back in the sand. There was all time for death, as Mandolin came in to cut their throats, easy in the summer noon. Thurlun said good-bye to hope as the heavy steps came towards him, on the hay ridden floor. The guardian of darkness and subservity said scratch scratch scratch with his bare feet on the ground. Walking towards the thief first.

Thief God said: Blow blow blow, whatever you got, go go go. Bound may be a word, and bound may you be, but let us shatter your last dance with at least a jettison into the heavy darkness, your heart and feet so much lighter.

The Land-owner swung on the door. Gleering awful in, half hanging on, never having slept, eyes fifty and sixty inside the clamshell eyelids of tiredness, “I’ll watch you today Mandolin, I’ll watch you… Just watcha.” And now the Land-owner just leered in, jaws aching, body aching, slapping the barn on his arse, watching.

Mandolin turned back towards his master as the thief slep dead, wondering what joy the on-looker found in his chors. He grunted, and looked again at the thief, taking out a short knife from the dirty white pockets in his apron. “Mando Mandooo! Let me see your work, let me see you take away his buzzard flesh, I have a calling…”

Mandolin looked back at the Land-owner, wondering why he felt such elixer for his work.

The Thief was dead. There was a barn, where battered prisoners once lived, and now there were just corpses tied to posts. All of their minds opened to the hatred, and the needless extinguation coming.

“Nhhrrhhhaa” Mandolin said turning around, as the land-owner dribbled, watching him by the barn door.

Why do you like to watch me take the butterflies away, I naught understand this ilk and past-life heaven forward beyond mind you tell me of. Now I will take heart-wing from the throat, take lapis lazulai that you say is red, and bury in the ever garden of Orchids. Then come back, take the rest of the silk away from bone. Why you look?

The Thief, thy rabid fool, deirdre of sorrow flux, old and new morning night, closure of cats and dogs napping in each others waltzing between ground and perhaps a bloody knife being taken out.

…Ghost, are we here in the red? Yet again?

The prisoner hung his head down low. And as the black Golem reached forwards slowly to Thurlun’s throat, he pushed his feet into the ground and brought around the rope into his eyes in one, once again, ready to dance – albeit without sight! – left across the the face, up with a jump, then back down whipping the remainig ropes around the giant’s legs-not enough! Thurlun rolled forward twice through the hang-mans legs and slammed a fist into his his right kidney making the woker grown lightly. He looked around – trying to luft his damaged eye-lids, and caught a wood oak fore arm in the gut as Mandolin raged, making the thief roll again, like a monkey on fire screamig into the corner – Mando lumbering over, “Get him!” The land-owner screaming, too afriad of the furor to step into reality.

Thurlun gathered himself in the corner and called on the silent stranger who had whispered him hope in the night, and felt Mandolin come towards him, then understood the dance, violence, task, twist, upright, breathe out, little time, thanks to the Thief God, control, surge, surge by the beat of a humming bird, heart – only a matter of steps now – charge in the thief’s heart, blind, cornered, no-where to go, but a sunset and eclipse laying outside, a second, even the land-owner ready to get involved with the lower life form in the corner, and, all of this, in the captors right hand, gathering his spirit in one open palm, flashing teeth:

SANG DAMN DIRECTLY!

Ahhhhhhhhmmmmoooo-
-ooooooore vectors of life more than my flesh!
My back rubs in the corner of a barn, I!
open my mouth, move my right elbow down
past my open knee as I begin, then
call not on a god, but my body, my body of a man
i ask for light in darkness, the impossible, in
my palm

And in this second a small light, only a light enough to allow a bela & colour of small light to pulse in a palm showed in Thurlun’s palm, a blue surge gathered in his open fist, somethingf that shadows allowed, something he had left… And by lo, the dusty thief was singing teeth gritted…

Peraps the way one of Cleopatra’s kidneys beats, or one of Antony’s eyes battles within the fire red, ha! A small red overcoming the blue and then vice-versa again and again. The Thief had never practised “the art of going away” enough. No fathers, no mothers, no daughters, no sons. Then he looked up, without looking and felt-

A warmth.

His eyes were closed but felt danger near. And their was a hymn left in his lungs. And there was a grace left for whatever day felt it. Few teeth left, bleeding where a dog bleeds, battered up in a corner. No eyes. No eyes. Pure pure shaking in the open hand – one dance left my foolish bewlider, even if this strike is made from a new element, it will not be one, that lets you stand – And like this the thief spun up, missing Mandolin’s jaw as he growled, and he landed back down, throwing the energy into the wooden wall behind him, blasting a small, thief sized hole, where his limbs moved, through the wood, and he jested:

“Come old Theif God, on your say so I spring back and decvk this giant, so that we can both be!”

And of course, there had been no other man tied up in the room.

“Get him you lumber of filth!” The land-owner screamed.

Mandolin looked around at the man by the door slowly, “Ehhmmnnnnnnn” He muttered swaying his head to one side.

Personally, I’ve always wanted this, my mind is slower than you think. You come and talk to me in the after hour. Your breathe. Your heritage… After we catch this thief, where I eat him in-front of you, you will know what horror is. You must be included in my horror. My life. After this. Even your highest joy will be mine. And when your sloppy steps come to my room. We will have have.

Mando looked down at the thief’s magic, and roared. Higher and lower mandibles opening, tounge feeling not the gravity of times, whipping around the surrounding flesh of his lips, gurning where devils die, teeth inside the teeth of teeth, more like an artist’s luxury of canines inside a skull, transversing flesh, than a smile, opening Jupitor’s chaos, cocain dies inside a heart, the hands of teeth are out, the tails of my mouth come out, I am the blue glow of your shadow, I am the tentacles of all human growth, I am but desireless, as seas richochet against my hunger.

A tail whipped near the thief’s hide as he bust out, scraping the flesh away from his lower back as he escaped. Out into the rough forest ocre, his first step made him sink down to his knee, Mandolin opened the entire wall, Thurlun reached forward avoiding a fist diving into the sea of sweating green which came for him.

“He’ll ruin my Orchids!” The land-owner said.

Then Thurlun dreamt heavier, and sank even heavier into the world. The land-owner became a ghost. And in one drop of heavy cosmos, the rain remembered that it was summer. As a predator is lesser than than atmosphere around him. The sun celloed recalicitrant eachoes into the paladin swamp, and said: neither you shall swim. And so they made poems. Sinking. Beginning the earth, beginning the story, warred and wars belonging to the robust giants of the planet’s sea, they sang and swang even through the pain of dying was a piano, just one thief and a rogish man, but the black was not black, it was really a clay of swaying Dedalus that they dismissed, and then they realised that lifeis dance!

There are no bad hearts! If there are, through them away!

They are but shawls of demise, and there is always the wayward-tip toe hammer of night that breaks the earth’s poison! Maybe if I strike you with my spirit of knuckle, you’ll eat my soul, you rotten tigrothe, so where you take my arm away-and where my knuckles are tuned into dream, I am no longer the sea, but the pummeling sea, and then we separate into space, and stars and novae wound, wounds inside a satry, that ever flow is music, that time is emotion, that strikes are swayed, in and out, punches still thrown into the thrown of the sea.

Then Land-owner watched a few bubles rise up from the marsh.

He rolled a cigarette.

And missed not only his loyal friend, but the thief whom he danced with, whom he could not see, and wished for their curse of dance, once again. He wished so longinlgly, in one ex-hale.

The exhale of smoke made many thoughts.

And all of the characters from his mind came alive. It was Friday. So fox was okay, badger, pidgeon, dog, bird, cat, piano, the small tussle of movement which was a hedgehog that he’d seen trying to cross the road several weeks ago. Silly man nearly got run over. It wasn’t a hallucination. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come with me small spiked friend. You can’t just go wondering about here. You could get run over, oh! Now you bunch into a ball.

I would pobably do the same. It’s ok. You’ve been wandering about mate. I’ll take you down the road in a bucket. The sheep are upset where I walk across. I would explain that I have an adolescent hedghog in a bucket, that’s looking to make new friends. But obvioulsy, they would look across alarmed.

I find a place, in a bush, dry, let wee fella go.

***

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