blp
11-20-2005, 08:09 PM
Numberless things become hard to compute. One
has a lot of to do but no one to go to
Just bills, plums in puddings, fiddlers three
&c. and at rest you wonder what it’s all for
When all you get back is a thumbs up or high five
And a bozo friend who comes back and sicks
up pink chunks in the sink after six
pints, a couple of alcopops and a pill from someone
who gave you it all when you said ‘I’ll do half I’ve
got work tomorrow, you know, can’t be too
bleary.’ But here a form emerges, an offer
you realize, you got a usable number: 615 243
‘Hello, who is this? Mate, it’s nearly f***ing 3.’
‘Yeah, sorry, what was I…should have waited ‘til 6.
Joke.’ Nervous. Like you’re sober, never did this before
‘No, thought you’d still be up. Or it was earlier, more like 1.
I woke you up. Sorry. Didn’t like…mean to.
I’ll hang up.’ Lame. But she says, ‘No mate, it’s five
…I mean fine. Unh. I mean I’m awake, I’ve got like five
people over. Come over. I mean if you’re three…
…free. Nnnh. Yeah, quite trashed actually, but come if you want to
I mean yeah, come over man, it’s not like I’m in Sussex.
We’re just chilling out, having a bit of a mellow one,
But no, ‘d be cool. Look, write this down: flat 4…’
And already in the cab you wonder what you’re doing this for
‘Where’d you say, mate?’ ‘Uh…I’m not sure if I’ve…’
‘Bit queasy. The seats sour with the smell of Sezuan,
fumbling for the address, everything fiddly bothery.
Then you’re in a doorway ‘R&B Urban Classics
Volume 524’ or similar and some runty guy takes you through to
the lounge where she’s on the sofa, wearing a tutu,
smoking a spliff with a hard mouth, and says ‘Alright, before
we do anything, let’s just sort out the basics.’
A series of acronyms followed by numbers: fifty-five,
seventy-five, one hundred. And you’re out on the count of 3,
shaken, back where you started, with nothing and no one.
And then it’s as if it’s all one, or you’ve won, as if to say,
‘In all this ethery nothing, a structure, a wherefore, some
stuff I’ve always known, a sequence at least that’s ix nay to zero.’
has a lot of to do but no one to go to
Just bills, plums in puddings, fiddlers three
&c. and at rest you wonder what it’s all for
When all you get back is a thumbs up or high five
And a bozo friend who comes back and sicks
up pink chunks in the sink after six
pints, a couple of alcopops and a pill from someone
who gave you it all when you said ‘I’ll do half I’ve
got work tomorrow, you know, can’t be too
bleary.’ But here a form emerges, an offer
you realize, you got a usable number: 615 243
‘Hello, who is this? Mate, it’s nearly f***ing 3.’
‘Yeah, sorry, what was I…should have waited ‘til 6.
Joke.’ Nervous. Like you’re sober, never did this before
‘No, thought you’d still be up. Or it was earlier, more like 1.
I woke you up. Sorry. Didn’t like…mean to.
I’ll hang up.’ Lame. But she says, ‘No mate, it’s five
…I mean fine. Unh. I mean I’m awake, I’ve got like five
people over. Come over. I mean if you’re three…
…free. Nnnh. Yeah, quite trashed actually, but come if you want to
I mean yeah, come over man, it’s not like I’m in Sussex.
We’re just chilling out, having a bit of a mellow one,
But no, ‘d be cool. Look, write this down: flat 4…’
And already in the cab you wonder what you’re doing this for
‘Where’d you say, mate?’ ‘Uh…I’m not sure if I’ve…’
‘Bit queasy. The seats sour with the smell of Sezuan,
fumbling for the address, everything fiddly bothery.
Then you’re in a doorway ‘R&B Urban Classics
Volume 524’ or similar and some runty guy takes you through to
the lounge where she’s on the sofa, wearing a tutu,
smoking a spliff with a hard mouth, and says ‘Alright, before
we do anything, let’s just sort out the basics.’
A series of acronyms followed by numbers: fifty-five,
seventy-five, one hundred. And you’re out on the count of 3,
shaken, back where you started, with nothing and no one.
And then it’s as if it’s all one, or you’ve won, as if to say,
‘In all this ethery nothing, a structure, a wherefore, some
stuff I’ve always known, a sequence at least that’s ix nay to zero.’