INT: SPACIOUS OFFICE BULLPEN

Staggered rows made of desks in which employees are encased,

assisted by docile screens & keyboards,

yoked by headsets,

steered by a software and,

last but not least,

bestridden by marketing.

​

Between two calls, as the fingers press words onto the screens, the eyes fall to the bottom right corner of the screen.

2hrs left. 

Earworms wiggle their way down to dancing fingers.

Come with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride.

 

Logging back in.
Call-10 min-no sale

Call-1 min-no sale     

 iterations       like incantation  produce     a trance like   state

Call-2 min-no sale     

Mental strands fold and unfold like party whistles

Call-50 sec-no sale    

navy cherry iris & black strands

Call-1 min-no sale     

​

she slobbers an army of tin soldiers unaware

Call-30 sec-no sale    

 that death is slurping her brains through a plastic straw

Call-4 min-no sale     

twirls

Straw              slashing

The striped                            and stirring

berry smoothie          the strands

into a

Call-25 min-no sale   

Down her neck

The sunflowers of her white blouse

Call-30 sec-no sale    

shrivel

Call-1 min-no sale     

and are reborn

Call-35 min-sale        

as yellow chrysanthemums

Call-1 min-no sale     

                            eerily matching death’s garland

Call-13 min-no sale   

Meanwhile

Call-30 sec-no sale    

The green of its peacock feather cloak grows more and more lurid.

Call-3 min-no sale    

 

Teeth on a bracelet clatter and glint.

Call-22 min-sale        
Call-40 sec-no

The day is finally over.

Smirks

​

IN THE BACKGROUND: The cacophonic droning of calibrated conversations.

The ethically anemic guile of reluctant salespeople. 

The sharp pop of privacy perforated by the tusks of capitalism. 

The century old scientific organisation of labour will attend our funerals, and time it.

​