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PLACES // SPACES Welcome back. This is the SECOND ISSUE of RGB Colourscheme, named CEREAL BAR. We hope you enjoy. Content warnings can be found on the back inside leaf. This issue was released on 09/3/2020.

Facebook: @RGBColourScheme E-mail: rgbcolourscheme@gmail.com Editors: Thomas Dervan Adam Husain Orna Rifkin Matty Matsagoura Wicked photo on p.6: Sam Blackwood

Our most special thanks to: COLIN HERD, whose new book ‘You Name It’ is out now from Dostoyevsky Wannabe Press. ÉIMÉAR and CAT MCCLAY, who designed the cover for this issue. (insta: @catandeimearmcclay) The ST HUGH’S COLLEGE JCR and BRAZEN ARTS, for provding funding for RGBColourScheme


Contents 4...First thought Fourth Best Thought by Colin Herd

6...Skeleton Crew by Frankie Taylor

12...Touching Distance by Adam Husain

16...Postcards from Oxford by James McGovern

18...Abortive Fiction by Michał Krenz

20...Anatomy of a Handcuff by Emma Levin

22...Please God Don’t Let Me Get Dicked In Fulham by Thomas Dervan

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Colin Herd

First thought fourth-best thought I brush your hair back. I brush your back hair. I drink water and lemon day time telly in the evening how did you cook that one up I go up to people in the priority lane At airports and say Do you think you need to think about Your priorities? Spaces that make you more brutal than you really are You know my thing about dentists I want to be able to perform a dance with my shoulder blades as a party trick or at poetry readings You’re going to need a tissue poetry is the party trick to end all party tricks not really in a good way What are you up to with that Cotton wool? I put my wallet on top of my car And drove off 4


This is the Publication Process Gloria Anzaldua once had a dentist say “We’re going to have to do something about your tongue” My dance with my shoulder blades is angular you don’t join because Oaty yawns hold you back A fox A beautiful yellow tree I’m so high on queer art I put a picture behind my car And drove back on it so high on queer art that I can see a helipad I may or may not visit the exhibition Queer Space but I do know when I hear the phrase “such and such’s newest queer space” I hear the sound kerching It’s like my body’s got a new pair of shoes And they’re rubbing so soft and brooding the war crimes we all live with The breath of fresh air

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SKELETON CREW

by Frankie Taylor

Everyone knew the dead didn’t stick around in Spraggle Cross. After a brief stint decomposing underground, the deceased had made a habit of rising from their graves, gathering into small groups, and making their way out into the countryside. And why wouldn’t they leave? A town like Spraggle Cross, festering in one of the meandering Thames’ many armpits, wasn’t much good as a place to die. The high street was made of one- and two-storey buildings, arranged artlessly and painted all grey. The Wetherspoons right next to the butcher’s, where customers stood purchasing discount cold cuts and inhaling the aftertaste of cigarettes and bottom-barrel ale. The blocks of terraced housing stretching out, on and on, broken up by recreational grounds, empty and laden with dogshit. And the sub-suburbs, some way beyond, a prolix mess of semi-detached houses, with orcs and goblins from unpainted Warhammer sets staring out of upstairs windows. So yes, the dead left: but no one was quite sure where to, and most thought it quite impolite to ask. Some said that there was a place in Surrey, a gated community for skeletons, paved with tibias and pelvic girdles. And as for Albie, well, he hadn’t expected to end up dying here. He’d left Spraggle Cross, the M4 commuter town of his youth, for a Derbyshire-based free-love commune in the early 70s, and hoped he’d never return. When he set up the legendary prog-rock

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13-piece, Albie Thwack’s Penchant for Tidiness, he thought he’d made it. But following a botched world tour (PUT YOUR JEANS IN THE WASH WORLD TOUR, 1995), and a string of records incorporating ‘ska and hip-hop elements’, the money had dried up. He’d had to sell the place in Beverly Hills and return home. Now it was all over. Regional radio had confirmed the news; a couple of days ago Albie had been found decomposing in the front room of his semi-detached. The television had been found paused on an early episode of Spring Watch, Bill Oddie’s broad face frozen in the acid glare of the screen. Albie’s neighbours had shaken their heads, and the broadsheeters had drawn up obituaries. Maybe now he might be able to get away. The funeral had been a brief affair, conducted by his niece Amanda, who escorted the Hearse to the graveyard and then left the reception early to catch the late-night train back to Dundee. A few die-hard fans turned up, wept graveside, then left for a pub. They wound down the hours discussing bootleg recordings holed up in a corner booth, faces gradually distorting through the glasses of their shallowing ales. Then everyone had gone, and Albie was left alone in the Church graveyard. A letter in his left breast pocket politely instructed him on afterlife procedure. He was to wait for Sunday night to rise again and join a group of his fellow deceased on their journey elsewhere. And so, Albie waited. He let his flesh and thinning coiffure melt back into clay, join the industrial run-off and the Roman coins and the empty cans of 7-up. He thought about his life, about how he’d ended up back in Spraggle Cross. At the turn of the new millennium, a room-share with Richard Hammond had opened up and coming back home didn’t sound so bad. But Hammond had bailed immediately. He’d found a tarpaulin in Stoke-Newington for a ‘banging price mate, you’d be fool to miss it’. So Albie had settled into retirement alone. At some point – 2006? – he’d tried reinventing himself as a warrior poet, a shaggy bard emerging from Albion’s colon to

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haul its folkish fringe into the 20th century. But the one time he’d taken to a nearby forest to recite ancient ballads, he’d fallen over a rabbit hole. And besides, all that blue woad had given him a terrible rash. Reimagining oneself turned out to be harder than he thought. Ah well, Albie thought, tapping his toes together in the dark. Soon Sunday came around, so Albie began the process of emerging from his grave, squirming through the soil and worms to the surface. His fingers burst into the night air, and then his knees and ribs, followed by the other arm, his skull (upside down) and finally a toe. He took a little while to piece himself back together, and for an angry moment it seemed like nothing fit, like his body was a dodgy TV stand from Ikea. Then he realised he was looking at his femur the wrong way round, and it all set into place. The letter hadn’t offered much in the way of direction past the rising-again part – it just said to meet the others and then leave the town. Albie wondered where they might be heading, and it made him giddy with an excitement he hadn’t felt since figuring out you could play musical chords on a Canon i-SENSYS FAX-L150 A4 mono Laser Fax Machine. In the carpark, next to a Ford fiesta, stood a set of four skeletons. Albie waved a bony palm and they nodded. Together the crew strolled out, turning left away from the church and onto the town high street. His companions set a modest pace, and Albie struggled a little to keep up. He tried to ask where they might be heading, but none of his companions said anything. He joked that he hoped the afterlife wasn’t here, in Spraggle. A milkman chugged by them, nodding politely from the helm of his cart. The group carried on down the high street, passing a collection of failing bakeries under flickering streetlights. Albie walked past the Costa Coffee he’d been to a few times; he saw himself there, holed up in a corner booth, trying to write something new. Never getting very far. He remembered how once in there

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he thought he’d seen his long-time artistic collaborator and friend, Carlos ‘Good Vibes’ Ericksen, at a nearby table. Albie had waved, but Ericksen hadn’t looked up past his jet-black mod-fringe. When he’d risen from his seat, shouting ‘Hey Good Vibes, it’s Albie, remember me?’, Ericksen had crawled into his latte as quickly as a spider, so that the top of his head was only just visible. To Albie, everything in this town looked like something he knew. One time he thought he saw David Bowie in a charity shop, but it turned out to be a woollen scarf with a pasta stain. Skeletons all looked the same, he thought, and that comforted him. Or, well, maybe they didn’t. Pivoting his skull back atop his spine, Albie swore he’d seen one of them before. And he had. It was Academy Award-winning film-star Matthew McConaughey, holding up the back. Albie called out and remarked how rather strange it was that the two of them had run into each other, that they had died here in Spraggle Cross. McConaughey laughed politely. He looked shorter than he did in the movies. Albie wondered whether they made sure everyone else was sitting down before he came on the Graham Norton Show. He made to ask him, but McConaughey was turned the other way, whistling, as they passed by a bus station, its glass casing muddied with bird shit. As they neared the edge of the town, he asked again where they were heading, whether the rumours about the gated community in Surrey were true. The skeletons shushed him, at least as well as they could without tongues. Something greater did indeed lie beyond, they said, but if he kept asking where, they’d never make it in time. Albie thought again about Spraggle Cross. Why was he always trying to hard to get away? Spraggle Cross, Spraggle Cross. This town. Where Lives Have Been Lived. Where Second Cars Have Been Bought. Where 11+ Tutors Have Been Guiltily Solicited. Where Husbands Have Grown Incontinent And Fallen Into The Crevice Of Their Sofa Chairs. Where Much-Anticipated House Parties Have Been Un-

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derattended, Punctuated By Awkward Conversations In Kitchen Doorways—330ml Heinekens Nursed Slowly, Tenderly. Where Dinner Parties Had Been Ruined By Nervous Breakdowns, By Middle-Aged Tragic Heroes Mounting The Table And Kicking Roast All Over The Place, Splashing Gravy in Grandad’s Hair, Booting A Baby Carrot in Auntie’s Nose, Flinging A Side Of Beef In The Top Right Pocket Of Dad’s Boxy Suit. Where, in a playpark, age 15, he’d tried a cigarette for the first time, and then thrown up on the roundabout. Where on Sundays, Albie’s mum had given him a lift to the second-hand record shop and waited half an hour while he rooted something out with his pocket money. Where he’d come back home and listen to the new record in his room. Where he’d run away from to make a fortune, and where he’d returned after all this time, just to peter out watching re-runs of shows he never much liked in the first place. Was all the real stuff somewhere else? Maybe, he thought, maybe it was – outside, past the final fringe of house he was now approaching with his new skeleton friends. Or maybe it hadn’t been so bad, maybe. Before they left the town completely, daybreak now approaching, they passed by a pub showing the football. Oh, we can’t miss the early morning kick off, he thought, and popped inside.

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Touching Distance

BY ADAM HUSAIN what was it about Tom, Fergus, I striking out of a morning plumb along the river? deepest, dearest Fulham. the soft lap of water along the concrete of Putney Reach. and all this stuff some 8 years old, & I forget The bench facing Ceylon House was the sight of more than one Springtime Epiphany. Very Meaningful Conversations were Had in Richmond, Barnet, and Barnet Railway Bridge only to be hastily forgotten, I think. Though some lines I can remember ‘I’m bad and everything needs to change, I think!!’ sounded uncertainly off at high pitches. the days when it felt – no – when it was Very Important to write down Names on pieces of scrap paper. 12


and what was so exciting about that? I kept a map up on my bedroom wall (still do) displaying West Brompton to Hampton Court (still does) a stretch we walked (and still could do). afterwards my body hurt tracing lines that never forked over streets and park boundaries following the path we’d taken with my index finger an inch above the map-face & excited & tired & all breathed-in while in between the air was empty as a window. the sooty iron of a once-provincial suspension bridge the river cloudy and mysterious as miso soup and excitement was enough to take your breath away. though even in those high-feeling days it came only seldom you know how it goes the world is up&up! until stems hit the greenhouse roof & brown out, thickening. nowadays I might snuffle around for hours in vain, the grass and wet leaves listening, the nymphs departed from the environs of Kingston. but such excitement then. when walking was somehow Political. A revolt no a quote unquote “dismantling” Of Capitalism? high-rise apparts & empty deluxe units in Wandsworth, Vauxhall and Kew. 13


at night we raised our fists against them crying “Capitalism! Late Capitalism!” by which we meant of course “Our Parents!” (And I sometimes wonder if a whole generation of French sociologists were, in like manner, confused.) 3 walkers with red hands in their pockets blooming rarely, but sometimes really there before the first cold shafts of dawn, shoulders up, heads down, eyes in the grass, looking. when it was 5 years later when Louis kissed me publicly on Broad Street and finally I saw it: when I couldn’t even hold his hand & cinder blocks & estuary sludge round Chiswick, Kennington, Twickenham. once I swam almost to the other bank and back. the excitement of it, to be in touching distance.

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James McGovern

Postcards from Oxford I remember (not in any order): a walk along a bridge as

cherry blossoms fell, the kind of day that exists only in vapid dreams, or in grainy Hollywood pictures, we were as impressionist figures printed on a postcard, or was it only rain? Ah, postcards, picked from the Ashmolean, the city of Arnold’s ‘dreaming spires’, colleges steeped in history as a teabag steeps in hot water, undergrads punting on the Isis on afternoons of eternal sunshine. Facts: two hundred years ago, the scholar Jonathan Reddick who could not walk would be carried to the Upper Camera of the Radcliffe Library on the shoulders of two porters: the fact is scratched down somewhere. One winter we passed on a houseboat on the canal, stirring with our toes the rime-cold water, boiling water for tea in the rusty kettle, cocooned in blankets, buying groceries and fuel from the riverborne pedlar, the boat, what was her name? Who planted those trees, those rows of trees? What are the names of these? My mind is like a wallet in which I can never find the right card, the right coin: apple, magnolia. Evergreen. No name but a scent, and a colour: disinfectant on red tiles. A woman, I do not know her name, grabbing me by the arms her spittle spraying from her mouth and screaming into my face how could I not — The lanes and cobbled streets, paths trodden by many feet, we wish to wear down the stones, we kick up the dust, but it always settles again, that is what life is, kicking up the dust, waiting a while, watching it settle. She is calm, the woman, and we watch the television, though the story is a puzzle to me, as serene as if we were sitting before a slow stream, and when she smiles it is like seeing the smile of an old friend, 16


underwater. I pronounce the names of the rivers, the fields, the frosted parks, and they taste herbal in my mouth, like greens freshened with dew, for now it is possible to have a light heart in this weighted-down land. Every night there is a full moon, the face of the woman, ball of bone-crystal glowing in the darkness, looks familiar in the moonlight, we hold each other, close, as outside the dwarf apple tree is sprouting silver fruit and the cress in the windowsill rises orchardlike. ***

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Abortive Fiction by Michał Krenz

Hydroelectric Dams “Convert hydroelectric dams into gigantic batteries. Cover the desert with photovoltaic panels. We can do it, you and I, for the sake of all humanity.” “Leave me alone,” said Organ Pipe Cactus. “I’m watching the game. Agave just scored.”

Not to a Bar I’m in a new place & want go out not to a bar, but with you know smart cool rich people not too friendly. If they’re friendly to me, they have low standards. I don’t need them. So I take an Uber and ask the driver but he tells me to get a dog instead. I don’t want a dog I have 1685 friends.

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That Commotion What was all that commotion? Jules instinctively looked at his phone. Nothing. Out the window. Zilch. The studio? Nada. Yet something was afoot. He took a deep breath and went back to work. It was not until the next day he realised where it all took place: in his head.

In the Mirror What a week! Charlie looked in the mirror. He considered smashing it with his fist but that would’ve been worse than self indulgence: a terrible cliché. Instead, he decided to symbolically spit in his own face. No wonder people wrote how old fashioned he was.

Empty Mirror After his wife left, John felt empty inside until he quit his job and started a cult. He wanted his temple in the rainforest but the trees were cut down before he made his way down. Now he manages his cult’s social media from the suburbs. He likes the squirrels and there’s a mall close by.

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The Anatomy of a Handcuff by Emma Levin

Most handcuffs are constructed on the same principle – two metal loops close around the wrists, tight enough that they cannot pass over the hands. The first great innovation in the design of the handcuff was in 1862 - with the arrival of the ratchet. From that point, one size actually fitted all. Stephanie trembles on the bedspread. Gareth is exploring her body like a Poundstore - with the conviction that if he just keeps going there’ll be something worthwhile round the bend, but a nagging suspicion that the destination might not have been worth the journey. The two loops of a handcuff can be joined by either chain links or a solid bar. The lateral movement required to break these bonds is not one that humans are good at. Chain links can be broken by force, but not without significant pain. Gareth rips Stephanie’s socks off with his teeth. Stephanie groans like a cooling radiator. Gareth’s mouth is now full of fluff, and Stephanie’s feet are cold. All handcuffs made by the same manufacturer can be opened with the same key. For the cuffs used by police in the United Kingdom, this key is simple – a single, flat tooth at the end of a metal rod. It is not illegal to own a handcuff key, and many shops do sell them. Stephanie and Gareth both work for a company that sells uPVC windows to a company that sells uPVC fixtures. These windows are fire resistant, BPA-free, and insulate 7% more heat than a standard wooden frame. The office is located on the same road as a church, a school, and a crumbling, subsiding pub. Depending on the time of day, the sound of bells, children, or old men discussing death drifts in through the window, and Stephanie feels like she’s living in the introduction to a Pink Floyd song. In France, the image of handcuffs is so closely associated with guilt that the media are not allowed to print photographs of suspects wearing them.

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As Gareth rolls off, and walks to the bathroom, Stephanie watches his silhouette in the doorway. His ribs protrude under his skin, and the outline of his chest looks like someone’s clingfilmed a pinecone. Stephanie feels slightly ill. Through the open window she can hear birdsong, and the deafening roar of a bin lorry eating glass bottles. Gareth brings out his vape, and blows a cloud of butterscotch haze in her direction. Stephanie looks to the ceiling. The fire alarm is unblinking. They are in a hotel expensive enough to install alarms, but cheap enough not to fit them with batteries. Stephanie coughs. The bin lorry finishes chewing, and starts swallowing. Gareth suggests they go again. Stephanie looks at her watch and shakes her head. The contractors will be here any minute. uPVC windows don’t install themselves. When magicians escape from handcuffs onstage, they rarely use false cuffs. The real ones can be picked so easily. Driving to their final appointment for the day, Gareth places a clammy hand on Stephanie’s knee. The tower blocks smear across the window, leaving grey stains on her retinas. The car is a 1996 Ford Mondeo and the indicator lights louder than the radio. Their client is a developer, and they park the car at the edge of a building site. Mud is piled up around the sides of the houses, making it look like they pushed their way through the ground. Emerging like moles. Gareth has a mole on his back. Stephanie always tries not to look at it. Focusing instead on the unblinking fire alarm. It’s very important, when she’s with Gareth, that she doesn’t look at the mole. That she doesn’t focus on his chest. That she doesn’t think of the promotion she could have taken in Bristol. The life she could have lead in a city of tofu and bridges rather than half-built houses and vacant fire alarms. It’s very, very important not to think of these things. She shows the contractor a brochure of frame options. He goes for the deluxe platinum option. (It’s the cheapest). The restriction imposed by handcuffs is mostly psychological. Their locks can be picked, their chains snapped. But handcuffs are broken very rarely.

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Please God Don’t Let Me Get Dicked In Fulham by Thomas Dervan

I’ll reduplicate. Alright, I’ll fold in, and over. Try to say about things in like sixty different voices. By the level crossing, a boy is being loud. I move things around and am careful that they occur in relation to each other. I piss exuberantly upon the terrain. Motspur Park. Also known as West Barnes (West Barnes Library, West Barnes Surgery, West Barnes Lane. West Barnes telling you something but I don’t really mean it, I mean, like, come on, what do you expect). Something- something- ology of a someplace I love admittedly and where they, admittedly, they vote Tory. Yes, I traipse. I do. Among the thicket by the Beverly Book, tweedle-dy twoot (etym Bever’s Lea / Current Population Of Wild Beavers In The United Kindom: 0, zero, and so on.) The ingathering of just a huge bunch of things. Like when I met James. The Earl Betty, (British fleet, Jutland, WWI) is the only local public house. And therein of a morning we meet in the beer garden to enjoy a single cup of beer. Oh say can you see by the dawn, the air, quaking and sparkling. I looked at his fingers. I looked inside his eye gripped him by his good shoulder and told him: [...] the Bomb Landing In Claremont Avenue landed on a 21st birthday house party killing many. J-- T-- entitles her 375-word web post ‘Was I Invisible — a Memory Of Motspur Park’. Another reads we would go into Wayletts so that [my sister] could buy a small box of black magic chocs for our Mum, and a 1/2 ounce of A1 tobacco for our Dad. And another: My best friend John King lived in Arthur Road. Wonder what happened

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to him, if your out there still John loved [sic] to hear from you. James observes, like a large ice cube. He says: No. He says: Cannabis. He says: Meal Replacement Powder. He says: St John’s Wart, taken before meal times, in gelatin demispherocylinders. James says this, who is James this Maniac, KT3, 6NB. But he is right. At 12:36 I leave. My telephone rings. Yo, sorry, Call me back, You’ve caught me at a yes, a, I am combusting inwardly (07******175). I receive one email. I see nothing in the sky. The infinitesimal coordinates betwixt, and no, and yes, I traipse. Arthur Rd, Seaforth Ave and Adela, James’ Fingers, a discontinuous motion, like analogue video rewinded. Glimmering, but sort of obtusely, like tinsel. On Douglas Ave (google.com/maps) I stop and position the horizon w/r/t the houses (combo of terraced and semi-detached, post-war, red-brick and pebble-dash exterior). Far away a cat moves, and then another. I shiver; I quiver. There are more than one hundred things in the universe, I think, happily, idiotically. James, I may be more than the sum of several vague notions. Seaforth Ave, again. A plane, in the sky. A Dentist’s surgery in which one year I had so many fillings. I’ve been thinking of the ultimate perversion, being fucked real fucking good (yes) by your dentist. Appearing at 51°23’49.6”N 0°14’16.0”W, I thought all of this, grinning. Displaced completely my body shifted up and across and down. Zzzzt, Zzzzt, Zzzzt, and yes, and rather tenderly. In the mechanical chair, raised and, oh, let me down. The roboto arm, severally severally articulated, finds its way carefully to me. Arranging here a known thing there a strange thing here. Arranging everything carefully. The breath of the dentist, their fingers on

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your face, their chest settled lightly on your shoulder for leverage. And the day sort of licked clean, I think all of this first in this way, and then in that way. And I retreat a moving a bit inward and then outward, through, etc. and come to the Sir Joseph Hood Memorial Playing Field (not to be confused with Joseph Hood Recreation Ground) [which] is one of Merton’s 13 Elite Sports Grounds. [and is located] off Marina Avenue. (merton.gov.uk) wherein something occurs. Yes, I traipse, I do, across, and with unparalleled grace, down/along/among the Replanted Shrub Bed, the Kickabout area or old bowling green, the New Older Childrens Playing Area. Feeling urged toward a precision I am ecstatic, towards a precision air-dropped and slotted a precision that is tiny and excellent. Made completely out of music sort of and no of syllables also, and one hundred daydreamt exteriors, and also nothing in particular, nothing James. Here: in the Nature Reserve, In The Shadow Of The Valley of the gas-holders, among the thicket by the yes the tweedly-twoot The Beverly Brook. And James, on the dirt path, who is come to join me, and there is the water, there it is. I whip myself up all lucid and so ecstatic (hello, explosion) and apprehend brilliant and voltaic the sodden putti of complicated rubbish here enfilade along the riverbank, go on then, god yeah, wheezing silent among the nimble reed. I get really focused on a thing. James, he looks to say something. No. Down a little way I spot a heron (whoosh, whoooooosh, oooooooooooooo, ping, PING) who bears witness and is Harbinger of Doom who spies no fish Whispering Silver among the stones (pause: fish population non-native, reintroduced, a series of facts like delicate and expensive biscuits, you are beginning to understand) and these stones, well so and they are polished And Polished By The

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Quivering Shivering Radiance Of The Palm of the Water, That is the Most Graceful and Subtle Convulsion, and so on, go on then. Or alternatively, James has caught me and I’m no longer can’t be able to not to look at him. No, Okay, Uh, Yes, I traipse, being fucked real good, the sodden topography of my is. And the clean-licked day, sixty different voices, and to finish, I hover, and understand, I must have misunderstood, that this is where I would enjoy my miraculous and mundane debasement. This is where I would that I would be touched, touched and sucked on, withered down like a Cadbury’s Chocolate Éclair snatched by ruddy fingers (oh so much I am caramel and toothache) from a crimpled//crumpled packet suspended in the thicket touched like a prayer, amongst the shrapnel. This is where I would that I might be completely understood by my peers, no, sorry, I mean, where I would be touched, hereabouts, where the colours tend toward a grey and a brown that is no colour, but something else, in the sky, generally, something-something an afternoon flying low to the ground, giving yourself time to think, alone. An afternoon spent in a kebab shop, alone. Touched, by the queer and shiny arrangement of Lilt cans behind the Curved Glass, Touched, with his forearm (a field of hair in tapering billows, olive, a line of muscle) as the man un-forms the exorbitant meat. This is where I would that I would be Touched // Touched! and killed, brutishly, and Touched, Delicately, when Touching is a moment unrealised with fingers that waver and splay, and Touched, amen, okay. Deep breath: inhale, exhale, and what have you. Observe, said James. He smiled in a way I would always remember. We do not think, or transgress. We basically play. I, the supreme duchexx of getting ass-touched, and you are the aroma of a freshly unboxed Apple product, and I am the photo on the back of a DVD case, yes, with the caption ‘the supreme duchexx of getting ass-touched.’ And this, and that, in Motspur Park, in London, England, 2017-19. James asks: Do you dance? Yes, I say, We do not dance.

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RGB COLOUR SCHEME is proud to announce that next term we will produce ISSUE 3 the so-called “LAMP SHADE”, an issue dedicated to short form work.

We are calling for: (1) short poems of 20 lines or less (could be haiku, fragments, found literature, even like sonnets or something!) (2) flash fiction/non-fiction up to around 300 words (3) translated prose and poetry of the same specifications (4) visual art and photographs (b&w) We especially love work that is a bit irreverent, that doesn’t take itself too seriously, but that is also (seriously) good. Please have a look at our past issues, which you can find on the ‘about’ of our facebook page (@rgbcolourscheme), to see what we mean! Please contact us if you would like to submit, or discuss ideas, either at rgbcolourscheme@gmail.com or via ourfacebook page. Anyone can submit! We are also super open to new ideas!

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This is the end of the second issue of RGB Colourscheme. We hope you enjoyed.

Content Warnings: Anatomy of a Handcuff includes mention of sex. Touching Distance includes mention of homophobia. Please God Don’t Let Me Get Dicked In Fulham So Help Me God includes mention of sex, war, and the dentist.


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RGB Colour Scheme Issue 2 Hilary Term 2020 -- CEREAL BAR  

RGB Colour Scheme Issue 2 Hilary Term 2020 -- CEREAL BAR  

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