Impersonating respectability is hard without your own accountant. Picture an offstage amoeba about to shapeshift into a politician, or a sponge insisting it's not spineless - that's me. I write. I only sign contracts; I don't necessarily know what to do when the go-to man goes for the get-out from the get-go - whatever that means. So a late-in-the-day phone call from the publisher says she hasn't eyeballed enough fat to part with the breakfast vouchers. Assurances that the lyrics are complete and that they are perfect for her client aren't enough. But where's my advance? The question behaves like glue on my fingertips preventing the final adjustments leaving home. Raging doesn't appear to help. I try swearing therapy - it's helpful but not in the business sense. The conversation ends strangely, with the sound of plastic hitting a wall.
The second section is here. What am I going to do?
I heard a husky saxophone
Between the street talk and the drone
Mugged by a school, I am a runner with no shoes
Crowbarred a waiting window – welcome city blues
Whether, Baby, you stay or leave
You’re better by yourself
If you find some air to breathe
Don’t tell nobody else
I’m a digital companion
I’m a passport with no place
I’m a double of an old friend
I’m a copy of my face
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