Hey hey guys and girls!
So it's taken me 'til now (21:19pm) but I've written a proper poem about things other than the shadowy women who hide in my imagination. I fell back on my favourite form, the PROSE POEM - is it a story? Is it a poem? WE JUST DON'T KNOW. So we say that it's a bit of both. In fairness, if I added a few more line breaks, no one would ever know, because my cadence is so fucking right on! WOO YEAH! Poetry Masters FTW!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. While it's about anyone working in a job that they might not be too keen on, it's going to be dedicated to a good friend of mine, who I cannot name for legal reasons, but they're definitely NOT made up.
On Office Work
Another chilled out fucker of a morning. The sun is just throwing off its preshow nerves and the leaves mutter something about Pernod. A beautiful song about latent life expectations revolves in my ears while the small plastic ballerina makes me feel so terribly ample.
Someone has left a tiny shoe on my desk. I put my bag on the hook and it hangs like a German paratrooper caught in the solid arms of an oak tree, dying. I take out my paperwork and begin circling the tittles. I’m told it will help to emphasise the writer’s point.
I leave and re-enter the room. For some reason Colette is crying; that awful middle-aged, dry-crying that seems so much less real. “We’re just having a moment,” Janet says. We’re always having moments, Janet, that’s how the semantic reasoning of Time works for humans.
The sobs continue all afternoon, each one connected, jointed, a skeleton of misery scaffolding around us, holding us up as the 3 o’clock slump approaches. Oh for a mirror to smash my face through, that I might truly see the reflection of my agony.
I gaze out of the window with all the abject air of classic Hollywood. A fat dog sits by a bin, his spindly legs splayed like a bunch of keys that belong to an old manor house where a hundred ghosts have gathered for a series of lectures on spooky poetry.
By the end of the day, my elbows are flat as northern vowels. I try to eat a banana, but feel like it’s laughing at me. As I leave, a percussion band follows me with the sound of ironic rain. The dog looks up at me with a sad smile that says, “I used to be just like you.”