shopping for neccessities

i am supposed to be reading money by martin amis but i’ve looked here and there and can’t seem to find it so instead i’m reading the dark stuff by nick kent which i borrowed from drikus in joburg the other day i just finished the bit about morrissey and because it is saturday and getting late i walk down to the spar to buy some wine for the braai at kayang’s house tomorrow right outside my house five metres from where yesterday exactly this time somebody snatched leanne’s cellphone out of her hand while she was talking to anthea jen drives past me in a smart black car she doesn’t see me she’s on her way home around the corner in scott street turning left out of arnold i see michael who used to be in a band called blunt we greet briefly he’s on his way to a friend who’s been waiting an hour at the corner of bishop and arnold a thin slice of sun illuminates the newly planted and pruned heads of ornamental trees which are stuck into small square holes in the tar sidewalk outside what appears to be a shop soon to be opened by an opitmist currently containing just an old cash register and a bronzed tree and two streets further down i see george from hog hoggidy hog with his new hairstyle it’s hard to be in a punk band you always have to have new hair you’ve got to be right out there to get the look a chain isn’t enough anymore emerging from a car with a friend their cd sleeves say his surname is bacon so there you go a young boy is buying sweets from one of the traders in station road a small truck with gas cylinders is parked outside cool runnings i can hear shouts for the rugby coming from scrumpy jack’s and the brother from the sudan isn’t at his usual post outside the spar selling lighters and scarves and stories today there’re just two dogs a white one like a jack russel and a dachshund with legs too long to be pedigree tied to something straining at their leashes waiting for their owner trying to lick little children so i walk straight in and hear her voice before i see her the cutest girl to ever hit a till i forget her name she’s telling a funny story to one of the others as i grab a basket and see kessivan naidoo jazz drummer legend of moodphase 5ive and who i last saw drumming with carlo mombelli at the grahamstown festival it was a mad gig because carlo is maybe mad but it was brilliant too because sometimes it’s the same thing who i don’t know so don’t greet but acknowledge his presence and try to see what he’s bought so that maybe i can rush home and write a song called ‘i saw kessivan naidoo at the spar and he was buying potatoes’ but can’t so i wander to the back and get two bottles of tas and a loaf of bread stealing a lingering glance at the girl she is quiet now but when she smiles or talks or laughs she is every reason you could ever need to shop at the observatory spar who is packing something onto a shelf near me and then consider buying yoghurt but then decide i’d rather buy it at fruit and veg on monday because it’s cheaper and then i get some canola and that’s it except for a brief pause at the magazine shelf to look for a y magazine to see how they used that article i wrote for them on freshly ground but they don’t have y and i’m only marginally distracted by the fhm cover with lisa marie someone on the cover and the sports illustrated with ana sharapova and the mail and guardian with a story on ‘the new madams’ of south africa there’s a picture of a black madam with her black gardener and in the queue i see a tv and the bulls are playing against someone and i pay and it costs fourty four rand and fourty five cents which i have right down to the last five cent coin and i file a ten cent and remaining five cent coin into the heart foundation collection box and stride back out and back home keeping a weary eye out for sunset-strolling muggers changing to the other side of the road once and greeting people walking their dogs and thinking that it’s not september yet but today’s as good as spring and what a waste it was sitting at home all day should’ve been out and about doing things in fresh air maybe next weekend maybe not gotta find that book called money otherwise i’ll spend another lecture staring at the cover of someone else’s book not knowing what they mean by an unreliable narrator.

firstly, you

I was alone
with all of you
these discussions, these laughs, these drinks
are all incredibly boring
but that you know
I play the game all evening long
say nice things about terrible hair
drink shooters that taste like shit
and fend off attacks of careless marauders
where the hell are you?

ah, yes, I know I’m in too deep
love
damnit
where the hell are you?

slow service at the bar, high priced ciders
suppose the petrol’s up again
the same things, I tell you
have fun in lousy times, I’ve said that
the other girl’s eyes flipped, she glazed around
I take her home before she dies on me
running errands
where the hell are you?

I’ve been deliberate all week
lurked in obvious corners
snared myself with liquor for the occasion
little to report back on
talk talk
walk the walk
swagger and smile

god, there you are

sweetsmoothhh fucking cute
perfect crack of white smiling huge black eyes that pool me in
tinge of sophistication in that tongue, that way of saying
‘I’m soooo fucked’
stunning

I was there alone
with no one but you

(and now of course she lives in london, on the other side of an email address)