The Complaints Department

Nobody calling at the tail end of Friday
Has anything good to say
If they’ve left it this long, it’s a ticking time bomb
That they don’t quite dare leave ’til Monday

So the caller’s frustrated (and won’t be placated)
They picked up the handset to moan
It’s a cert they will dump ev’ry unwanted hump
Down the angrily crackling phone

I’ll be blamed for their woes, standing in for the foes
In their workplace they daren’t attack
For a frontal assault would be seen as their fault
The decision that got them the sack

So a dose of aggression is their contribution
To kick off my paltry weekend
And the favour I do them in listening to them
Will never be seen as a friend

A sudden sharp blow to the brain

The vice-like grip, at ten a.m. is but a warning, a presage of what is to come. A small twinge, a twitching of muscles, a lightly furrowed brow, then silence. You count the seconds, watch the tumbleweed jump and dance, twisting in the wind as it skips across the hastily vacated brainscape, and you pray for solitude. Eleven o’clock comes and goes, bringing with it a mild headache and a growing sense of foreboding that has nothing to do with the glowering boss lurking behind the advised (and advisable) plate-glass partition. It starts. Twelve thirty sees you staggering toward the cafeteria for a polystyrene cup of boiling monosodiumglutomate and a hunk of stale foam, encased in concrete, and sadistically coated in sesame seeds to provide you with the government-recommended daily requirement of gum-disease. The clouds pass by the window as you pick at your teeth with a ragged fingernail. Your email states that it’s nearly three, but time has little meaning here in the land of artificial light. The phone rings, your ears pop, and suddenly it hits, blinding, terrifying, hideous. You clamber out of the pit and cradle the receiver. Hello? A list of pointless instructions issues forth without provocation. The knife slices vertically through your skull, leaving nothing.

Comms…

I wish I were a telephone
I’d ring all night and day.
Could listen in on conversations
Hear what people say.
I’d never have to worry
When the quarter rolled around
My owner’d have to pay the bill
While I slept safe and sound.
Perhaps I’d be a portable –
The kind without a cord.
That way they’d take me with them
So I’d get to see the world.
Or maybe one where earpiece and
The mouthpiece can be split
Then I could wave at him
Whenever chat went on a bit.
Yes, all in all I reckon that
To be a phone’d be fun.
To spread the word from coast to coast,
Let mother reach her son.
But in this daily climate with
The cost of calls a-rise.
I worry that soon people will
Talk only with their eyes.