As long as...

As long as you're going nowhere, I'm going nowhere
AND WHERE'S THE FUCKING PHONE CHARGER!
What's the matter, babe?
I'M LOOKING FOR THE FUCKING PHONE - Doesn't matter.  Found it.
And we need teabags.
And it's back
To Fallout 4
To Age of Empires II
To Sudoku
To Facebook
To news updates
And it's hot out and besides.  The streets are filled with hate and ignorance that I won't dignify and all the celebrities are dying this Christmas.
"I'm just gonna play Sam Fisher with Shazzmobe."
Cool, my love.
And she writes the days away.
Forgetting all else.
Lost in her arguments, her narratives, her research.
And as long as she's going nowhere, I'm going nowhere
And it's alright.
Somewhere is an ad.
Somewhere is something someone is selling you.
It doesn't fit well sliding inside your mouth and you can't bite it off in desperation or disgust or even delight once it's in.
Somewhere is beyond the feats of Pyrrhus.
Because there's always a somewhere after it
That they'll try and foist upon you.
Somewhere is for the ones who made it
And now no longer know why they're there.
So they go on making money and buying fine and expensive things to be elsewhere
And if they can't find it, they quietly scrabble and claw and yammer for the somewhere they can't have.
But nowhere's right here.
With her lips.
Her full breasts beneath the black tank top.
Her pale knees.
Her laughter that can wake the dead and make the blind see.
The small, fine hairs on her forearm.
Her flashing green eyes.
WE NEED STUFF FOR TONIGHT'S SALAD.
I'll go up.
NO, I'LL COME WITH.
As if I'm a block or more away.
But I'm not.
I'm nowhere.
Where so many of us live with impossible ease and assuredness before the new year rolls around again.

Watching the wheels...

Simon Crane - 27th July 1965 - 9th December 2015

I wrote this song for him some months back. He liked it and that's all that matters.

"We ruled the roost: the eighty nine flats.
We ruled them fair. We ruled them just
And everyone knew when the party started
We'd all be there. We'd all be there.
And who bought the wine and who bought the beer
And who brought the smiles to everyone's faces
And who brought the talk of the town to dance
When we were kings.
When everything closed at 12 o'clock
The streets were dead. The streets were ours
We sat on the grass on. The hill down the park
We watched them play. We watched them play.
And deep in the night, we'd track down the milkman
He must have been scared. He must have been scared
When
We
Were
Kings.
And after the Dalmane and pale white skin
You saw the world. You went beyond
And took to the road like a bird on the wing
You told me so. You told me so.
And I sat rapt with the globe you weaved
I wanted in. I wanted in.
We took on the world and sometimes won
When we were kings.
What's it all coming to running like we did
Just snot-nosed, smart-arsed brainiac kids
With rage in our eyes. Our hearts on our sleeves.
What's it all come to?
With you in Verona and me in the gutter
You pulled me up. You held me high.
And all of the things that we never said
Adventures we would never share
You lent me a guitar and five free chords
I won't look back. I won't look back.
And swam beneath the beautiful waves
Your beautiful fingers.
And you stopped playing, found it too easy
And I was shit so I pressed on.
Strange rhythms and their melodies
In both our lives.
Locked in a room playing pointless games
Who would be the first to speak.
Spitting off the treacherous headland
When
we
were
kings.
What's it all coming to running like we did
Just snot-nosed, smart-arsed brainiac kids
With rage in our eyes . Our hearts on our sleeves.
What's it all come to?
Stick around.
What's it all coming to running like we did
Just snot-nosed, smart-arsed brainiac kids
With rage in our eyes . Our hearts on our sleeves.
What's it all come to?
Just stick around.
What's it all coming to running like we did
Just snot-nosed, smart-arsed brainiac kids
With rage in our eyes . Our hearts on our sleeves.
What's it all come to?
Stick around.
What's it all come to?
Your long beautiful fingers.
Long beautiful fingers."

Crane

Good.

And the day was filled with confusion and things
That didn't work.
Not the way I'd planned.
Not the way I hoped.
And people, though not memorably mean,
Could only do what they could to help.
And I respect that.
I try occasionally to be just like them.
Miss as often as I hit.
And at one point I felt a throbbing up in my neck on the left hand side
And thought, "Uh oh."
But I didn't die today.
Not in body, leastwise.
And everywhere I turned, there was work to be done with barely the strength, skill or inclination to do it.
But some things got done.
Not the way I'd planned.
Not the way I hoped.
But they got done.
And it rained.
Not enough to complain about
And not enough to rejoice about.
But it rained.
And there was work
And that was that.
But tonight, babe.
Tonight was a lobster tail filled with cherry flavoured custard and there was a half consumed pecan pie from Brunetti.
And some chocolates from Hawaii and from Belgium.
And I type still licking the chocolate and custard from my fingers.
Just the way I'd planned.
Just the way I'd hoped.

Unfinished sweet.