It’s fire drill in the office
and every single soul is out,
away from life restraining edifice,
away from silly chores they never fail to tout,
away from lame reasons for making a living,
astray, and helpless, and almost dead
in that pharaoh tomb-like looking building
All milling in the sprawling parking lot,
a crushed down limb of the office block,
that spears up ugly and square and matt,
towering the neighborhood,
gray and flat,
like a huge, demonizing razor
with sharp, sleek, angled up edges
carved in concrete and glass and fake wood
The smoldering asphalt pond overflowed
with bodies mingled in the flamed up summer can,
big and small, bent and erect, tall and short,
rows of sacrificed soldiers in the parking fort,
a man, a woman, another man,
faking the joy of being together
under the fiery rain of the scorching sun,
toys made from the pinkish fabric of blood ,
lipsticky smiles smeared on their faces of leather,
etched shadows on the grey with white streaked canvas,
of bodies alluring or appalling in the summer heat,
the sweat on their cheeks shining like blubs,
boobs oversized, undersized, or plainly ignored,
craving the touch of the springtime gone beat,
big fat slabs,
huge hips, tiny feet,
confident, forced, accommodating laughs,
offending smirks,
flashy clothes, shabby clothes, half clothes,
bad jokes, good jokes, no jokes
politically correct employees,
stupid ideas, unreasonable hopes,
lack of any human empathies,
successful directors,
insipid lives,
gone underground dictators
in the corporate force,
suffocating, colorless human hives,
mind-feeble, socially genius hulks,
cornered liberal minds,
glued for eternity to the lay low ranks,
never be generals,
jailed in the prison of the hierarchy,
hunt down by the ghost of the born to be dead company
Sweating,
faking,
hating,
farting,
surviving,
hardworking, phlegmatic, cheap hacks,
piled up together,
on the tarp made out of tired, cracked leather,
the pyramid of the corporate torso backs
When drill is over
and everybody’s heading back,
called to the daily operative order,
streaming through the narrow door
to ways of life they’re not fit for
it’s just backs,
torso rears,
corporate human spears,
labor force cannons built out of wax,
a stream of torsos wrapped in tight clothes,
the big boss has no name but a wider back than Max
who's a ratter,
as everybody knows,
and has a name, but no place
in the corporate front-runners race,
the heard of human backs
streaming down in the pond of lassitude
well groomed mediocrity or pure crassitude,
the slaughterhouse
of squashed dreams, washed hopes, ignored loves
that never get to bloom a life,
quickly pushed aside
by the murderous tide
of the corporate backs
