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Into the Walled Garden


is that I come to work for the salary cheque…”
Under great duress, in times of e xt re me stress,
the human mind processes data like a supercomputer,
flashing scenes and images of life passed our eyes
as the brain tries to find the best way to avoid
losing its connections with our so, so frail bodies.
The silence that follo wed my blaspheming,
maybe ten or fifteen seconds of true quiet,
lasted for what seemed like a sma ll geological
age. I could hear the tectonic plates of our
inspirational speaker?s mind grinding.
Latterly, having more t ime to think, afforded
to me by being between jobs, has made the art
of wa king up much more rewa rding. I have
adopted the creed of doing what I rea lly want to do,
of reading and writ ing, of walking with the dog,
and fully intend to make it my purpose in life
to rise up to the challenge of join ing the board
on the wings of Hermes when ne xt I sign
a contract. I will perfect corporate speak,
and the fla mes of my success will be fanned
by my e xqu isite doing of absolutely nothing
and by my assumption of no responsibility,
oh no, not for me results. I will e mbrace
the project culture, will evangelise and strategise,
evaluating performance, pro moting, assessing
and ema iling everyone in my address book.
I will leave my brain in a bo x under my desk,
joining the ranks of advisers, consultants
and facilitators, e mpowering others to achieve,
just like the mult i-coloured life coaches, who,
in ancient Egypt, must have motivated
the slaves to build the bloody pyramids.
I will look decisive, will speak in acronyms,
adopting jargon as my mother tongue.
I will lunch and will always leave work
a few minutes after time, wa lking the corridors
of power with unread files under my a rm.
I will look busy, committed and on message,
with a square of the finest linen in my top pocket
ready to wipe dribbles fro m my red, red lips
after the lapping of warm milk fro m porcela in
bowls on the fat cat me rry-go-round.
A Pot Full o’ Butter
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