Go on.

Go on.
Write shit. Sure you're crap at it. You're crap at it and I'm crap at it and he's crap at it and she's crap at it and we're crap at it and they're crap at it.
So who the fuck's to judge?
Who's to play sanctimony with whatever endeavours you have in mind?
Good writers have bad days and write crap too.  So we can't run to them for our doses of flagellation. It wouldn't be fair to the pomp of their tarnished and tenuous celebritydom, much less our pursuit of their thrones, would it?
Just write shit.
Or play shit.
Pick up a guitar, a banjo, bag-fucking-pipes, spoons, a tambourine, an ocarina, an accordion or just get together with friends and harmonise. Badly, if needs be but try it.  You'll like it.
Make sounds.
With the recent death of Bowie, I see in the news that he thought Coldplay were shit.
But that's not the truth, is it?
The initial reports were that they wanted to collaborate with Bowie but he said the song wasn't that good.
Within hours it all went from a song that wasn't so good to Coldplay are shit.
See what I'm saying here?
Sanctimony.  From cunts who really ought to know better.
And I'm no fan of Coldplay.  They seem decent enough but they're music gives me one massive Mister Softy.
And just to stab the ghost of the sacred cow with a blunt butter knife, let's be honest.  Bowie had some terrible shit down through the years.  But in all fairness, he DID have a career spanning fifty years so all's forgiven, Aladdin.  Please come home soon.
Or go on.
Get out and exercise, if that's your bag.
After all you're not hurting anyone but yourself so go for it.
Even I'VE joined a gym.
And the real heartbreak is I kind of enjoy it.
By the time I get home, I'm too tired for the usual waves of everyday neuroses and bouts of overthinking about nothing in particular to haunt me.
So even I have to tell myself to go on.
Go on.
Stop wasting your time reading this filth and gibberish.
Go and live, my friend.
It's much harder
but a whole lot more fun.

Go on...

Rest ye well, David Bowie.

Something great has died.

And she plays the songs and sings beautifully to them from another room.

And the songs will go on spilling out defiling the beautiful world we all live in.

Or more likely beautifying the defiled world we all live in.

An idea, a deed, a temper.

It has died. Gone over. Returned. Whatever.

But something great has died and I can't at this moment imagine another planet or another time ever experiencing such greatness again.

Look back in anger.

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.

Poem for a friend.

So I gets home...

And immediately ripped off my kit and dived into the clearest of blue water and swam with dolphins and sharks (but they didn't bite me) and fish the colours of the rainbow.

And fought off marauders and pirates and capitalists and communists and people who waggle fingers, thinking they're the moral arbiters of our lives.

And once I got out of the water and dried off, I realised that someone had not only stolen my passport but they'd also stolen my 1962 Ferrari Super-America. So I ran, baby. I ran and tracked those cunts down.

And I caught them in their villa and beat them to within an inch of their lives.

And then I drank their wine, their vodka, their finest Calvados brandy.

And I made love to every woman in that place.  Even the servants.

And then, without looking back, I picked up the car keys and drove home.

Where I settled in to watch a couple of HBO shows, eat some turkey breast on toast and finally drifted off to sleep.

Monday done.

Piss Factory

The working body.

Fall out of bed, Put on the kettle.
Stumble to the shower. Soap, lather, rinse. 

Repeat.

Spray on deodorant. Put on the trousers, put on the after shave.

Put on the shirt.

Make a cup of tea. Head to the computer.

Check out the news. Check out the Facebook.

Never drink more than half the cup of tea.

Look at the time.

Kiss your love goodbye.

Reach for the jacket. Walk out to the car.

Take all the backstreets, pull up in the carpark.

Check your ID. Head in to the office.

Make another cuppa.

Shuffle to the carpark. Drink the cup of tea.

Contemplate the weather.

Head back to the cubicle, go through all the emails.

Reply to what you can. Think about the problems.

Think about the day. Think about the problems.

Open up some screens, see the cup is empty.

Head out to the kitchen and make another cuppa.

Slink off to the toilet. The silence there is massive.

Let the body do what the body has to do.

Wash. Your. Hands.

Grab the cup of tea and go and sit back down.

Look at all these problems.  Head out to the elevator.

Go to the departments giving you these problems.

Maybe it's too early.  Maybe they're not in yet.

Head back to your area.

Check out the news (that you looked at half an hour ago).

Look again at Facebook (that you looked at half an hour ago).

Lean back and stare at the flouro lights.

Thing. Of. Nothing.

Check to see if anyone's come in and logged on Skype.

Nobody. Look at the problems and think about solutions.

Greet some people coming in and genuinely smile.

Though you don't want to smile. Must be a human thing.

And now it's nine o'clock and everybody's rolling in.

Go back to stage one: "Grab the cup of tea."

Repeat.

This is what the body does. Your body.

My body.

This is what the brain in the body does.

Your brain.

My brain.

Repeat.

Ad.

Nauseum.

Be guarded.

These proscriptions are not meant to be carried back into the real world.

Bodies.