The Scene

A neutral palette of flat pack
supporter of trenchant
water cooler remarks
Paper filled hands that easily feign purpose
All seen thru coffee cured haze
where the mention of my address
reverts eyes to a nasal gaze
I ask what it pays
and patron-eyes, paper incise
Insinuating you'll get
what you got.

But in a suggestion of intuition,
sniffing the moulding of my biology
she asks if I'd considered a career
in information technology

I told her
A room full of computers
permeates the grease of hair
A room full of computers
makes me just wanna sit there
and play solitaire.

Hands then motioned to earlier members of the alphabet
I was qualified, but had forgot to pick up the certificate

I explained
That if ceremony was not redundant
then go ahead and pick from the finger buffet of achievement.

MMM...
At the moment the market is a desert
she apologetically muttered

But i see middlemen pitching their tents
in the paper sand

I uttered

Please rest from these practised postures,
feel the warm assuagance
as you emancipate yourself from sedulous devotion
to agreed opinion.

Let us shed it all to face each other
in our respective excrement
flesh and bone
cleansed of all ignorant sentiment.

Needless to say
I went away without the scarcest
possibility of employment.

THE END.