It’s never been as easy as now To apply for a brand new job – A couple of clicks on the morning train And your old boss’s loss is your new boss’s gain. Except…you’re one of the millions now, A lone CV in the mob – And all those skills it took years to master, The algorithm can reject ever faster.
We’re all sending pleas into the void, Just begging for a happier lot We’re bored and stressed in our current roles, Our daily slog has poisoned our souls. We grumble away with our hope destroyed, As the years see our futures rot. We know precisely what we want to do, But the gods say ‘not for the likes of you’.
I saw the plant through the window of the meeting room A bedraggled thing – Clearly wilted, but not yet quite in the waterless tomb – Determined to cling. But every time I passed, the space was fulfilling its mission, Hosting a crowd – I hadn’t a hope of providing the patient a little nutrition, Or sparing the shroud. Not unless I fancied news of paradigm shifts And stakeholder rights, Or talking shop on printer jams and faulty lifts Through doughnut bites. Until, at last, while walking by on my way to the train, And a forlorn glance – The lights were out, but the hallway fluorescents leaked through the pane… I took my chance. I had just a drop in my water bottle, to break the drought With barely a stream – But I saw some dregs in the coffee cups that were strewn about And a pot of cream. And a leak in the corner of the room had collected on the window sill – And that was its lot. Then I never found that room so empty again, till a fire drill Gave me a shot. The rest of the time, I’d pass the window and flick my eyes, To check its state, But through endless workshops preaching the need to synergise, It didn’t look great. Yet when I finally proffered my notice, on my very last day, I was glad to see, That that poor and bedraggled little bit of green in amongst the grey Was outlasting me.
I can hear her fingers dancing, dancing, Over the keyboard, rat-a-tat-tat. The tempo always five-to-a-heartbeat – I clock her typing, wherever she’s sat. Her fingernails, a little too long, Her bangles jangle, an octave higher, Grounded by the bass of the spacebar, And leak of her headphones bringing the choir.
I can hear our fingers dancing, dancing, Stretching for shift, then back to home – The double-letter quavers, the patter of delete, And the rhythm of return as a metronome. But not all keyboards are tuned the same, Staccato or reverb in stroke-length and gauge. I like it the most when we harmonise together – An orchestra of typists, filling the page.
Everytime I use my keyboard, No matter what for, I’m part of a galaxy – I’m one of a secretarial horde Who quietly roar For pleasure and salary, All in a perfect unity.
Ev’ry keystroke, ev’ry trackpad – Somewhere, Thousands of others are typing – Ev’ry clack and double-tap, And somewhere, Someone else is piping – Thousands of others mirroring me.
So ev’ry shift and space and save and swipe We think we improvise, Are really all an orchestrated hyper-text We synchronise. And ev’ry mouse we click is ripe When copied on the world’s machines, As ev’ry typo is a thousand typos On a thousand screens – All turning our percussions into harmony.
Sitting at desks or staring at phones, Together, The dance of fingertips – We’re unintended qwerty clones Forever, Until the Apocalypse. When the power-outage finally sets us free.
Rumour, gossip, and have-you-heard Are back with a careless, venomous word. Scurrilous whispers have their way – They’re good enough for Salem and good enough today. So who needs doubt or burden of proof, When the tales are better than the boring truth ? When even liberals are mongering fears, With two-faced lattes and schadenfreud beers, And even the press has dropped its mask Of public int’rest, and sunk to the task. Rumour, gossip, and feathers-and-tar Has shown us all for the shits we are. That’s you. Yes, you. With your bleeding heart, You’re ev’ry bit the hypocrite as any old fart, You Guardian readers, as catty as The Sun – A few lives ruined, but you’ve had your fun.
I long since came to a weary pact With my ambition and self-esteem – I gave them both the sack, And they in turn have promised not to dream.
And with that, I put on my tie, Polished my shoes, and buttoned my coat, And dived headlong with barely a cry Into the passion-snuffer’s throat.
I take-on full responsibility – I knowingly rejected thrills For mind-numbing futility To let me eat and pay the bills –
I do the work with competence, And nothing else – not even gripes. It’s dangerous to drop your fence – Don’t fall for pride, just sit and type…
I know I’m being used, each day, I have to shrug, it’s just the norm. There’s plenty far worse off, they say, Be thankful that you’re in the warm.
And yet…can it be…? That out there, somewhere, running free, Some folks have a job they love ? A job that’s always something new And makes a diff’rence what they do, And pays them more-than-well enough – But ah, those kinds of job are precious few, Not for the likes of me.
There are only so many fun jobs to go round, They’re thin on the ground, They’ve all been filled, or handed-down, Father-to-son, the lucky tykes – And none of them have a clue. Most of the jobs are the sort that nobody likes, But most of us do.
I have my hobbies, have my friends, I make the best of tedium, And live for the moment, live for the weekends – And tell myself that something else will come…
But what must it be like, though, To wake up with a smile ? To do a job that’s worth-the-while ? I guess I’ll never know…
I considered titling this poem 9 – ∞, but the two figures don’t look like they belongs in the same font.
Vasily and Stanislav, Though really their names don’t matter to us, And how many others we’ll never hear of – Remember their actions, but don’t make a fuss. No statues raised, and that’s how it should be, They aren’t special, they’re just good men Who held their nerve and held their breath Until it was safe to breathe agen. They did their jobs, and did them well, And gently reinserted the pin. They passed the test and lived to tell, And took their reprimands on the chin.
Alas, I have been unable to find out anything about who the artist is.
One Small Step
Stella Starbuck steps out from her capsule Onto the surface of the dry, cold Moon, Or even Europa, or Mercury, perhaps, But definitely on a Sunday afternoon. If she can only focus on her giant leap, She might ignore the droning of the cars – If she can make a rocketship out of her tepee, She knows she can bravely conquer Mars. It’s not, she notes, as red as she expected, But rather a barren desert lawn of green. With her life-support given one last check, It’s time to boldly go where no man has been. But what’s that ? Over there ! An alien ! Quickly ! Should she hide, or should she hail ? Too late ! She’d under attack, yet agen, As lasers shoot from its wagging Martian tail. Luckily, her pure-wool spacesuit is armoured. She picks up a ball from the regolith And throws it up – so high, so far ! – But then, her gravity is only one-fifth. All alone now, that’s when the voice comes Over the comms-link, into her thoughts – “Looks like you made it – isn’t that something ? The onward footprints of astronauts. But then that’s humans – always climbing, Striding and striving, proving your steel. You know, this doesn’t have to end at tea-time – One day, you could be standing here for real…” After a moment, another voice calls her – Ground Control, to come home for tea. But just before she must blasts-off, she stalls To admire the view of what she might be.
Rhyming Couplets 