THE OLD GIRL FILLS IN AN APPLICATION FORM FOR EMPLOYMENT
1. PERSONAL DETAILS - (Please be accurate)
The old girl says ? ‘I have always maintained
That it isn’t only the immediate pain
Of a rotten job and even worse employers,
It is the acquired pain of never seeming
To do anything right
That has a terrible, wearying energy,
To trouble and torment, to hurt and to bite.
So that even when I go home,
Closing and locking the door behind me,
That old fraud, Failure, sneaks in through the letterbox.
Not sneakily enough, though,
For I can always hear that metal mouth clicking,
Mimicking an excellent letter of acceptance,
Even whilst spitting one more disaster
Into the pockets of my mind,
Where I find it does what it is meant to.
Snips chunks of fear off its fatly fleshiness,
Sometimes leaving a whole arm and leg
Plus a mealy, mean and spiteful mouth behind,
Where it feeds on my career disasters,
Gorges on every cataclysmic fiasco.
2. OUTLINE YOUR EXPERIENCE - ACCURATELY!
Please fill in your experience,
But do not even think of claiming
As a serious work attempt,
A poem, painting, song or riff of guitar,
Or anything such as this
As a legitimate employment.
3. WHAT DO YOU EXPECT TO BE ABLE TO ACHIEVE IF YOU ARE SUCCESSFUL?
The old girl frowned
As she surveyed the wreckage behind her
And the very uncertain structure
Of the future in front of her,
Aware that some prosperous bodies,
(You know who you are),
Will claim her entire career existence
A train crash of gargantuan proportions,
Whilst others, (I know who you are),
Maintain any created creation
Tumbles such so-called disasters
To Lilliputian dimensions.
4. PLEASE SUM UP TOTAL CAREER EXPERIENCE
‘Well’ the old girl scowled,
Irritably surveying it all,
Glaring at the FORM,
Hating every word printed
In Bold, or in the margins palely loitering.
‘Well!’ she said again, then,
Recklessly seized by a fit of giggles,
Handed the wretched thing in,
Pulling from her pocket
A wisp of yellow chiffon,
Which, scented with a really weird incense,
Blew the whole kit-and-caboodle
Out of existence.
© Gwen Grant