It's like listening to 909
It's like when you're, you know, you're tryna live within your means
It's like being a fox and having all these dickheads shooting at you
It's the flower underfoot
What's it like? It's like a neighbour with a gripe and the rage
It's like having a conversation with someone
Who doesn't drink coffee for the first two hours of the day
It's like proposing on air, it's like having a workplace nom du guerre
It's like lying about a bomb scare to get out of work
It's like listening to 909
I think what I would like is for everyone to be slightly hungover all the time
And for me to be tipsy, one or two swifties in, but nothing unbecoming
Everyone is talking about the monumental exhibition, the epic
But I'm just thinking about the biography
I'm just hoping someone can show me
Anyway, I unplug the radio from the socket under my bed and find the adapter
I plug it into the shaving-only socket in the bathroom
In the shower, I listen to the news
The measured calmness of the headlines, twinned with the hot pinpricks above
Stir within me a great feeling of both health and un-health
The exchanges between the presenters further extends this sense
They feign the essential rhythms of life, as though it is life or death
I'm not listening to the words, but I can hear how they speed up to abide by the incoming segments
It is stranger than fiction
But I choose to believe in this
Because this is my morning tonic, before the daily yips
I leave the house in this fiction, act like my actions are scripted
My centre is everywhere, my circumference is nowhere
And by the old central station, I sit down and I answer all my emails
Everyone is staring at me, I know so because I can feel it
Every haptic ounce of paranoia forcefully rises and threatens an exposé
I am facing the screen, but thinking about nothing can't actually be seen
So, I carry on, I push the words and I hear the show call from above
It's your views, it's your call
It's your views, it's your call
It's 909, 909
It's your views, it's your call