Aye, the Remembricant said (I)
René Adams
2,102 words

& even 7 flies in love. Vulgar gropes in shadow. As if there was any sun from the media that could still surprise even a mongrel ear, and then I hit snooze. Broke the clock with my next slap. Small black scraps of plastic, I picked it up and threw it across the room. Where it disappeared through the wall, and into the white like a bayoneting sting.

Just another 5 lives until the scarecrow breeze is shattered once again by the magnet train. I was lucky enough to work from home. All of my homes turning into a single bed, oh and ghosts. I had lost about a stone, my twelve left looked alright. I gurned at the mirror. One more tour old man. One more tour. I looked at each day individually, and then thanked my skin. The hairs in my beard turning into my flesh. I wonder some days why I don’t age like most. The mirror is a blue silk mercury that rocks to and fro, as if time is emotion, and felidae and canine are one.

When I was in my late thirties I finally lost it. Just gently. I realised too early that nothing is connected, and I spent my youth dancing beyond fire, poems, paint, and sport. It’s so strange to only know a few things. Yet balancing it all, silhouettes on a knife, it’s brought me more flux than faux, if you can bare my strange idiosyncrasies!

I scratch my dog’s back and he replies to me inside green eyes. Life is heterogeneous, love is night inside an animal dream. Our comets are flesh, dawning such little light in hurdling chaos. Writing, fear, communication, beer, you, and conversations with elders, whom have stood beside you, the elixir of the streets snaps youthful bones into music. And sometimes when the orange blue clouds sway a little, and I have my morning smoke and coffee from my balcony. I think about that. Below- about a hundred feet or so, there’s my neighbour’s junk yard business, and the air contacting my future. Movement.

The quiet hover-JCB in the corner that rusts and sleeps until around 10am like I do not. Ice creeps up the muddy red slime of its bust and main rectangle figure, purring. It was winter a few moments ago, now summer in Waterloo, where we disgrace the stars with our private fury.

I wasn’t too bothered about it all. About “The Agreement” that is. If anything, as I pour artificial honey into my coffee, and the next bullet train makes my small studio flat rumble as if taking off, and I see a face in my coffee, and whisper an old French crooners song to you, it was almost normality to me!

Sure, the media explodes and inhales still. Archaic. Like a worm that lies to itself before pious erasure. Talking about the invasion, it was subtle, there were no blow charges or torches of atom death. Yet. For me it was the same old waltz. You can’t turn artists into shadows or ghosts, fearful of the next coming instant. Descartes was not only the tomb where he created ideas, but also the food in his guts, where he created universes in solitude-shared.

I write for a small film studio these days. You will have already seen my ideas, and how adverts twitch into reality beyond love. They don’t trouble me much. If I was young again I’d be strangling my own wallet just to suffocate my own desires again, with what they pay me! Mostly I return from the balcony and feed my dog. We decipher the artifacts of life, which are licked by day, created by fury, and sung by Dionysian punk. These days I just wake up and piss and shower and write. And I find that all of my vulgarities are my virtues. Pain is the ellipse that conquers most. Art is no more about practice than it is aggression, where most are tamed, few get down to it, and use their veins as pen and paint freely.

I had a dream this morning. Pluto milk. Laminate flooring, our bare feet dancing. Something about the girl at the beauty salon saying that you only came back during winter, as if this was your time to wax. So strange how people are in love, so great how much is shared and hidden. I ask each day for apocalypse, years on, I ask each work day to end and begin, and I mention to you, how much I appreciate a particular present you bought me, which creates night. Slow knives of skin in the street, where we heal savagely, and bring Hades into reluctant brightness. People with cheer, the lonely cocktail shakers at the bar, the wage I burn, I burn, and you wear a dress that reminds me of storm.

Sometimes I dream that this is an asylum. Although, I am free. So this thought goes away. Used to drink like a whale kissing the sun. And then when the fur grew from my tongue, and I howled how fond I am of you in the wrong way! I catch a media flick before I get down to it for the day. Today. These days I can churn out a script per thought, per sip of water, the liquid passes down my neck, and then there is tomorrow’s take on the phenomenological fiction of a miner, whose diamond cracking whip rattles the sea, the jellyfish, and the cicada buzz that we miss from Macau.

It wasn’t the light snatching you from your bed. It wasn’t some kind of megaplex zooming a burst of light down with infinite power. No subterfuge, no threat, nothing strange. The Remembricants, as we came to know them, were in some ways, or at least how it looks in my journal, just as bored, civilised, and legitimate as us. By us I mean my old analogue technology filled room. Ok I get a bang out of it, I’ll admit it. I leave the studio about twice a year. It doesn’t matter so much now. Life now is simple: few of us are made to create, most of us are made to retaliate, and as we are edged further towards animality, my knuckles make more sense – they crack! – (a small part of my life is lost and won each time), and as the media puke is shrunk by progressive words, there is such mirth inside our wildness.

The train relayed how much I love you by a somber quiet tone. The windows said: ricochet ricochet ricochet. It didn’t matter much about my meeting later, as always, the work was done, the script was written, and all I had to do was speak to the buyers. Get most of it chopped out. Try to control my anger. Never works. The scripts are azure blue, my hands are charcoal, and where they mine on Jupiter, doves defecate, and rock out.

There is so much time. I walk the fields with my dog. I end up saying such simple things that I am insane. Yet where I sit, and Poem rests his snout on my knee, I find a violent peace. The moors spread down, and we rip down the moon as I fall asleep. My friend wakes me up, licking my damn face, awful tongue in my ear. K. And we walk back home. And we are similar in our lack of trouble, your thighs, the sky, our lack of need to reproduce, so so rare. We seem happy enough in each others company, so strong. And we depart the way eternal swans do.

When it came to the end of my dog’s life, I was broken. We sang. We ate. We danced. We fell in love with the most curious scents. I dug a grave and got drunk. But then there was this one night, a little before that time, in this life. I smoked heavily, but not in the house. I was ready for one and was ready to go outside, I stood up and old man wanted to see the stars, he was going soon. To the place where dogs dance with other dogs. So he sat up, his snout wet, his eyes aligned with time. I took him outside and he was blind. So I said, no problem my friend, I will see for you, what do you want to see? And he panted cool easy steady white into the night. I said, ok, there’s the big dipper just there, I see that for you, and we exchanged the relaxing smoke of the cosmos.

I moved back down to the city and got drunk for 6 months, never caring for moments lost. The stars would align themselves many times again. And I would lay my fingers on this torturous imaging that I spoke wildly to you, quietly, tearing your belt away from your waist. Inside a strength I do not know. Widows light a candle inside Belladonna. I live with several and many chefs, and it’s all because the crazy lassy who lets me live here temporarily is mad.

Years on, I bought the building. But I missed the way that graffiti slurred along that place. And downstairs, the Gym on the first floor. Shower halls on the second-I water jets installed into the walls, so that I could walk, wash, and head to the gym at the same time. Then there’s me on the third floor. Some days I still hear the old-time drunks stumbling up the corridor, the glasses breaking, the screams and laughter.

Mine just sits quite happily on a fold up chair that I bought for him, in the corner. I’m not going to tell you that any day gets any easier, or that I know exactly why they’re here, but, there has been no disturbance with my work, and, I was already a nut-case anyway, la seule chimère est toujours en train de rire, the only chimera is always laughing… Then the damn rumble again as two bullet trains pass up and around my building-

«Damn it! Why don’t you stop! For just one day?!»

I slap the dirty coloured milk walls.

But hey violent reaction? The Remembricant said.

It was the negative colour white that got you. If you took the white marrow of a dead bone and then gave it a voice. I never replied of course. I just rode it out through. It began somewere in a place called «Northumbria» aparently, I had an old uncle from there. He described it pretty well as the data streams were turning bad. And damn. Even that time seems so far away. I guess this script better be about the sagacity of balls. No-one knew anything for a few days, just the normal crap that niave web workers create inside the leech of false zieghtgeist. But my alarm twitches, and christ is a jail man, and we’re damned from the start if free, and in our bible the summers are unmasked, the windows are made from our skin, and traces of technology are awoken in the dust, we’re animal and bow peaceful, since there’s lightening in our stare upon one another, sillouttes upon tattoos within dusk within silence, off colour swans named flesh, dusky black in thick desert scent, only lights lit by pollution, great red bulging synapses of city storm, where Waterloo towers above our nervousness-in each word of Summer, so that the Thames calms, I’m hung-over and you’re straight a million stars ago, our bodies more close mannequinns than lust in conversation, Martini in the hills, blood in our mouths, neverminding the day, as we exchange, and recreate the skin of peace. We’ll perspire until the keen collapse, as we do. Plumes and thorns in the morning. The taste of tomorrow. Damn tomorrow.

Days like this I just let it be. Fire down muscle and eye-lid. Say something strange to the sacred, eat truth, laugh liquid, allign the musky starline of an oviriate night dancing, cars and owls more awake than the city departing, the film writing itself as I drift away-ilk and terra nova hemisphere shattering neon. I don’t do much tidying this day. Just sleep with you. One random life shows me oue racing organs laughter, for the cheer that they have whipped by nerve endings as if filming Ben Hur. Tuesday an over-waltzed Friday. Lucky that my knackered old hands and mind recall that time is emotion, and, not the other way around.

And there is nothing stranger or stronger than being human.


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