Office Work.
The madman sits and his hands quiver,
he knows he is watched...by what?
Not by the red side of beef,
lumbering flesh monolith,
nor by the affluent seal
his fat glossy bulk
preoccupied by motion and events.
The female mouse in the corner said little
she lived inside the stem of a watery plant
running from the nemesis tongue at her side.
An ageing Hollywood star talked of unit trusts
yes, seven and six per annum, not sniffed at, yes.
One hastily assembled man
had escaped from "Les Objets familiers".
seen on an adding machine, bereft of frame.
Oh Barry was huge and round
the seal could balance him on his nose
but Barry would roll towards Brian the giant
and bowl him over, like a
felled oak
on one of the Alice girls who
ran about searching for the Red Knight, yes.
The amazed Les Condom would snap into
jellylike strands of flesh rubber.
The tennis-playing World War II jolly soldier
waving his hands
was startled by
his tattooed compatriot
kicking his heels in the air, yes.
A short-cropped owl clucked at himself
egg timers, shell petrol.
Rose was a large unfussy hussy,
more than a match
for the heavyweight boxer
and his hearing aid.
There is a shifty type who weighs up situations -
one is the florid clerk of forty six
recounting tales of lawnmower woe,
another is, yes, the guy who
pumps his girl-car every day...
And they are all together
in the vast open plan office.
The madman sits
and his hands quiver
shaking like a branch on a tree
that stands bare and alone
in the bleakness
of a vast desert.
Psychedelic
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