I’m surrounded by NDAs
like cages telling me the whole world is a secret
that I cannot tell.
“Hey, it’s all gone swell.”
It’s all gone to hell: I could shout it from the rooftops
or buy the tower of Kelvedon Hatch to air it
and nobody’d care.

What I had for lunch falls under the Trade Secret Act of ’94
and if I’d tell you, I’d never work in this town again.
I’d lllluuuuv to never work in this town again.

I had sushi for lunch.

I don’t have dreamy eyes;
I’m just tired, is all.

I’m a living, breathing sleight of hand:
“quick, look that way” –
but you can look at it this way:
I’m still uploading my full potential
and so far, only half the asshole I could be.

I don’t have dreamy eyes
I’m just tired, is all.

I lay in bed and pretend
not to hear the noises
of my neighbours fighting or fucking, not sure
(hope they’re fucking or else it’s a long fight)

and think of what I do:
helping someones come up
with somethings to say
and after Round No. Umpteen
of corrections, wanting by now to go for broke,
to speak neither truth nor falsehood,
but just to SCREAM out n’ be done with it.
Just.
To have something.
ANYthing.
To SAY!!!

I don’t have dreamy eyes, I told you:
I’m just tired, and that is all.