Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Not Dead -31/07/2009

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You could get lost in your own museum,

And I’m a little short for a storm trooper,

I am Costanza – in the lowest common denomination,

To your Seinfeld’s astute observations.

You are,

Still ten moves ahead of yourself in a circumnavigation,

Of embracing an-attempt-at:

An emotional outcry.

I am,

Punching and yelling at computers,

While kissing my bike in public,

And together,

We are,

–the best!

We stormed the Castle de Montijuic together,

Like it was the last crusade,

And lightning, was twice striking.

Light sabres debating phasers versus lasers.

We lament George Lucas’ fall,

Like it was Napoleon betraying the French revolution,

We are the future of entertaining ourselves,

Hours long geeky exchanges... on ice,

Then,

We are on fire down a yellow brick road,

A scarecrow and a tin man,

Brains and hearts needed in equal measure,

And we’re about the business of pulling back the curtain,

With our own wizardry.

We’ve grown up together,

Down a decade and counting,

You are my life jacket when I want to sink into despair,

My conscience, when I need to lay it bear,

When my naked avarice needs a refrain,

You are the last line of defence,

For the war inside my brain.

A counsel as Sage as the words of my favourite rapper,

Kirk saved Spock and Spock saved Kirk,

Though losing the ship and occasionally the plot,

They kept coming back together,

For one last big-screen sized adventure.

We staggered across Flemington Bridge,

To the walls of great height in Meknes

The guy who halved his last piece of fruit,

When I gutter-slumped hungry,

Back there in Barcelona,

You came to find me at the edge of the Saharan desert,

Dare say now that was more than I deserved.

Alexander the Great said:

“Give me a place to stand and I shall move the Earth”

And for your namesakes clumsy attempts to conquer that world,

We have now made our own world conquests.

Sundance to my Butch,

Louise to my Thelma,

Scratchy to my Itchy,

Han Solo to my Chewbacca,

Watson to my Holmes,

Homeboy.

You are Sam,

Yelling at me to hold on above the fires of Mount Doom,

And I am Frodo,

Climbing out of that furnace with your help,

And we, no, are not gay.

Not that they were either,

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that”,

If they were... or we were... or what-ever...

Because I'm no homophobe.

And increasingly, it appears to me,

Masculinity seems so easily threatened,

With the expression of any non-sexual affection.

Well, I say fuck that!

Forgive me this sentimentality,

But this poem is for you,

So this piece is for us,

Because...

I know there is someone out here who knows me,

At least as well as I know myself,

If not better.

I also know, as he does,

How inevitably in life you will lose people close to you,

So before that happens to either of us,

Again,

With whatever protracted skills I have gained,

In placing one phrase after another on a page,

I want to say at this poems end,

Thank you,

Alexander Scott,

For being there, for being my best friend.

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-Peace

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