Sticks and Stones
No: that isn’t it.
That’s not the worst thing at all.
The taunting or the fear
Or the names: epi, spasmo.
Jokes about frothy lips.
I’m supposed to care?
Those who matter won’t speak such things
And anyone who does?
A great excuse to loath them
As they should all be loathed.
So bring it on, archaic stigma
For I have studied you
And I will hit you right back
And I hit below the belt.
But something hits me harder
With its sticks and all its stones
They penetrate my thickest skin
Strike deep inside my being.
No words left to deflect them
No words left at all.
Just primeval rituals, ancient hopes
Expressed in gibbering prayers
That next second or next minute
The blows will start to fade
And mankind will creep back slowly
To this dumb, misfiring ape.
They Should Have Whips
We
sit in our thickets of desks
And
talk of seeing the sun
They
have it on the second floor, you know
Real
windows, real light
But
down at the bottom of the trireme
Only
the abstract glare of frost.
We
bring in our little name badges
And
some are able to flourish
Holiday
mugs, silver-encircled lovers
All
those funny, funny signs.
Potted
plants, though, like sunbathers
Turn
brown and drop.
A
page is freed from the tray, processed
And
a clone appears in its place
Gliding
through the serving hatch
For
the humming jaws of the computer.
Its
appetite is almost infinite
Twenty
billion bites to sate it.
Though
sometimes it turns blue with indigestion.
Then,
liberated, we sit back
And
curse and curse and curse.
There
should be a bell to frame the day
Maybe
a great big hooter
To
order us, up, down, spin around.
There
should be man prowling the aisles
Whip
clacking in time with clattering keys.
No
more. Not nice.
We
must flog ourselves, obeying only
The
old urge blamed on John Knox
So
we are trapped, fooled, exploited, suppressed,
Contented.
Fag Break
I
stand in the cool freshness
Inhaling
my stick of death.
Pyramids
of red tiles
Dignified
by their dotage
Overlap
and jostle
Across
the cityscape
On
the edge of vision
An
old monument to God
Flying
rats perch on brick stacks
Daytime
bats whistle forth and back
Smoke
dribbles into clouds
From
my mobile chimney
Peace
is with the world.
What
exactly were they thinking
When
they bolted this terrace
To
the top floor of our office?
A
playground for executives?
Dragging
hampers and business plans
To
share sandwiches with ants?
Surprisingly,
never happened.
Instead,
a haven for us addicts.
We
slip out wordlessly
Protected
by the silent pact
To
add to the heap of orange
Crumpled
little relics.
Escaping,
just for five minutes
The
bright vigilance of monitors.
Erratic
heart, hard arteries
High
blood pressure, bronchitis
Emphysema,
impotence
(Though
I think that one's a joke)
Peptic
ulcers, which sound lively
And
the C word wherever you choose
Throat,
lungs, lip or mouth.
Those
the terms on offer.
I'll
take them every time.
The Confessional
We
sit, he and I
And
sit
Like
lovers struggling to speak their hearts.
Head
of Finance and his vassal (me).
The
talk starts of promotion prospects
Relegation
fears, crossbars hit
New
strikers bought, misfiring men ditched
Until
we remember where we are
And
why.
Performance
appraising reviewing assessing
Or:
adding up the sums.
Six
months in six mumbled words:
Works
hard, hits targets, bit careless
Then
questions from the home psychiatry kit.
Do
you enjoy your work?
(Yes,
lucky there's so much of it)
What
particular problems are there?
(Head
of Finance can't manage staff)
What
do you like the most?
(You
let us manage ourselves)
Where
do you see yourself in a year?
(If
I could plan I wouldn't be here, doing this)
I
only speak the expected triteness, of course
And
perhaps he is concealing similar
Caustic
indictments of me.
Just
give us a confession booth
And
maybe we'll spend the hour stripping souls bare.
But
really, the silence is not compressed with silent truths.
Mediocre
work done in a mediocre fashion
Will
never inspire great rhetorical passion.
So
we sit, he and I.
And
sit.
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