“Where’s your namebadge?”
“I don’t have one.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“So you’ve been working here for a whole year without a namebadge. Tell me, is it our responsibility or your responsibility?”
“I.. I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“What’s your name?
“Is LMNOP your line-manager?”
That’s right. Make an enemy out of me. I don’t even know your name, Mr. Head-honcho, I had to get someone else to tell me that you were the Regional Manager. I have so little respect for you for belittling me that I’m almost compelled to leave your stupid company. You know, I’ve even heard XYZ is a big social retard, running away from everyone, disdainful of his fame. I’m tempted to say that it’s not just this company that treats young workers like crap - it’ really hard for young people to get jobs, let alone like them. I’m fairly certain we get the dregs of what’s offered; I’m absolutely filled with frustration every time I open up the paper and read what some ageist has said about young people being slovenly drunkards with no brain-matter.
Let me get this straight: Everyone is a totally different person, everyone is a totally different citizen of the world, and the very second you deny them manners, you’ve created a social caste. Justice is fairness, I feel like you’re the reason why people start wars. I saw you bossing LMNOP as you walked down my aisle, and then stare at that woman’s arse.
The Chinese Room
1950: the food was mushy
A crooner serenaded my exhaustion with a wailing string section.
The peeling interior roof-tiles
and the talking fish
symbolise your dementia.
Everyone stare at me when talking about that kid who got expelled.
let’s never leave the subject of newspaper articles.
When I said no-one’s ever accepted me into your family, I was dead right.
That wasn’t even a damn poem but you kind of get the point.