Franz Kafka, Disgruntled Office Worker

Let's face it, he probably was. If you've ever read any of his books, you'll see the obvious parallels: but if he were alive now, I think Franz would be locking and loading and thinking it's time to go postal. I'm writing this because Kafka hit the nail on the head: psychologically the position we are forced to put ourselves into for work is tantamount to indoctrination. Obviously this doesn't apply to everyone, but the average Joe (such as myself) works in an office, hitting buttons and copying/pasting for eight hours a day sat behind a screen that is slowly boiling your eyes, but it's not left that at that. Now you have to live the company, breath in it's acrid air of superiority and kowtow to the machinations of managers and mysterious HR departments without the smallest bit of dialogue interchanged. To be successful in an office now, means foregoing personality for the majority of your life. You can't be to loud, but you have to be a "pro-active communicative member of the team", you have to have constructive input, but it must be praise and not negative (saying that such and such is wrong is frowned upon).

Such as it is, the office presents an irreconcilable dichotomy that cannot be resolved in the psyche. It offers you the chance to express yourself, but that expression must be within the terms that the company wants. Essentially it gives you the illusion of freedom to be who you are, but when you try to get this "out there", the illusion if sadly shattered as your free will is not the companies, but not just on a business sense, but on how you conduct yourself. With such a paradox in place, is it any wonder that stress, anxiety, and depression are now occurring to more people than ever before? Much as K finds himself in a situation where he thinks he is progressing, the illusion is taken away repeatedly, until he (us) questions everything about life and whether we are intrinsically wrong!

Speaking of the office, I better get back to work now. God I hate my job.

My Love for you (Sausage Sandwich) is Like Red Red Ketchup

Oh Sausage sandwich you're devine,
you've got greasy drippings
that feel just fine,
buttery bread, is calorific dread

And oodles of ketchup
like something just dead.
Oh sausage sandwich
clog those artery's

If I'm going to hell,
make mine with seven
before I go I'll be in sausage heaven.

Dirty, Filthy, Sex, With Spurious Terms and Conditions

As the song "The Bad Touch" states, 'You and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals' with 'you' implying a non-specific person with whom one could be having carnal relations with. This song highlights a more simplistic meaning of sexual intercourse, indeed to such a degree as to take it at it's most base raison d'etre. This theory is supported by the reference "So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel", which obviously parallels male and female intercourse as nothing more than the animal copulations purportedly shown on the aforementioned TV channel, which for those who haven't seen it, is a documentary Channel on television that in it's previous incarnation had many nature programme's broadcast on it.



Dr. C. George Boeree states "Everything, both good and bad, seems to stem from the expression or repression of the sex drive." Dr. Boeree, in his analysis of Freud's theory of personality formation, relates that good and bad can stem from repression of the sex drive. What the "Bloodhound Gang" are trying to achieve is a freer expression of sexuality, as they implore the listener "...we'll do it doggy style so we can both watch "X-Files", showing that the "doggy style" is fine and not a moral concern, and that sex just to pass the time whilst also watching a programme on television (and therefore not paying careful intimate attention to one's sexual partner) is a fine and wholesome activity. The Bloodhound Gang, in conjunction with Freud's earlier principles, are saying (in loose terms) that base carnal relations with no higher meaning are a healthier release than repressing those desires, which could lead to personality dissorder.



What it also says that an essay can be written about anything, if one's got the boredom only an incredibly tedious office job can create to motivate you!

Dreams

It's not easy, this business of being attached.
You live your own life, then another to,
from their perspective, the things they do,
feigning care for every little scratch.

To be 'in love' is a heavy heavy price,
your dreams are fucked, they aren't in-line
with the house, the kids, the car. Instead,
you get by on an hour a day

Looking out the window
At a distance of fifteen years.

Leave Taking

I took the train from York,
'12:30 one way please' - the ticket seller nods
and busy's herself with machines.
'Sign here' she pushes through a half biro

Serrated edges broken ridges:
I sign my name and get the train.
We pull out slowly - an inaudible
message is read by the guard

'Leeds at 13:00 next stop Leeds'
as the train gets up speed through the City.
It's not pleasant, travel. People
sit in silent misery

avoiding eyes, too frightened to laugh.
Miles pour by - trees sat by stone walls
Isolated in the bleak pennine hills
squatting against the ferocious wet wind.

Funny how it is, here. Kids are balling
and mums are diffidently patting their cheeks,
youths are sniggering at some empty jibe
and the ticket inspector gets though his job.

All of them huddled trees in the storm.

The Recession Of Dead End Job or, the Recession Hit Undertakers

There aren't the bodies like there used to be. Five foot six, look! Ah, back when I was a boy being fitted into coffins by my dear old undertaking dad, he would say "snug?" and before I could whisper a sound booooooooomph! Lid closed and laugh he would, as I as very tall as a boy. Eight foot three then I lost my knees in the war.

Which war?

The war of wounded knee.

Wounded knee? That was a battle

A battle yes, but part two made it a war.

Wars were shorter then.

Like people. People used to be shorter.

I thought they were taller?

Only when kneeling down.

Light Fades

All light fades,
at the end of what was meant to be an eternal day.
You turned, and said 'will this always be true?
This love for me and you?'
I wished it was - us before the great presence,
young, clean limbed and pure,
our meeting the cause of resonance
in hearts less sure and minds less pure,
before this going moment.

'Whats right for us is right for all!'
You exclaimed from the moss strewn rock,
'love is new and love is old,
love is ours at bec and call!'

And the wind howled around us.

The rock doesn't judge,
but the rock says nothing at all,
the rock cares not
nor the wind that howled around.

Stood here now I hear nothing.
The moss has grown, and the rock, some cracks
have etched along it's sides.
The granite doesn't love
but the granite doesn't die,
All light fades.