My Paperweight Destiny

Call it a requirement of the job -

a reverse Stockholm Syndrome,

a mechanism for keeping apart

the day-to-day and the inevitable;

call it the choice between flippancy

and despair, a raised middle finger

to the angel of death. That moment

of inappropriate laughter. Today,

just one hyperlink askance

from actual work, it's a website

selling remembrance products

that tips the office into hysterics:

the oversize font and colour scheme

that couldn't be more unsuited

to purpose; product descriptions

in prose so purple it probably merits

a Pantone number all of its own.

And the products themselves:

sun-catchers, phoenix stones,

jewellery infused with cremation ashes.

There's a glowing endorsement

from the family of an American

whose ashes were packed in a bullet

and fired - at what or whom

remains unreferenced. Someone

mentions Hunter S. Thompson,

his remains shot from a cannon.

Gram Parsons' coffin was hijacked

and driven hellbent to the desert,

a fireball at the Joshua Tree.

That's when we realise being British

is boring. Our respective urns

blasted across Nottingham?

A Viking ship in flames on the Trent?

- Yeah, like that's going to happen!

Laughter fades as we accept it:

death will come as a paperweight,

holding in place what we didn't finish.

Hail to the Chief

Hail to the team leader

Hail to the supervisor

Hail to the manager

Hail to the boss

Hail to the scourge

Of bad timekeeping

Hail the god emperor

Of the early swerve

Hail to the clamourer

For responsibility

Hail to the dodger

Of escalated problems

Hail to the judgementalist

Who conducts appraisals

All hail the office’s

Moodiest fucker

Hail to the cynic

Who questions sick leave

Hail the opportunist

Working from home

Hail to the networker

Grapevining departments

Hail to the bully

Demotivating staff

Hail to the backstabber

Hail to the profile-shower

Hail the boardroom sycophant

Hail, O hail to the chief