Life and soul are you? Everybody's mate?
Top bloke? Everybody's got a good word
for you? Big deal. Nobody looks too close
when the phones ring every second of the day.
No-one has time to look between the lines
you crib from last night's sitcoms;
to ask why you say nothing fresh
yet hunger to be heard.
No-one watches your eyes when you flirt,
sees where your focus lies, the way
that you use womens' eyes as mirrors.
The way you need to know we look at you.
And no-one sees the grubby rooms,
the sweat-damp notes that you hand over,
the way you roll words like 'slut' around your tongue,
pound your way through another hired fuck.
No-one looks close enough:
they're caught up in your blizzard
of bargain bucket bonhomie
and bar-room, blokes-together, bull;
but some of us don't play that game.
Don't do the parties, hang out with the lads,
or read the same naff magazines.
We see you. And we know you.
Life and soul? Top bloke? A mate?
Dead-eyed. Nothing. Fuelled by hate.