The Human Race Gets Even With Human Resources

[reader warning: this poem contains management language that may offend]

So,
Moving forward,
We're letting all of you, in Human Resources,
Everywhere you reign on Earth,
Go.

We're delighted to say,
The business case we've presented to ourselves is 
deeply compelling.

The outcomes of the revised human race determiners,
Tasked to maximise provisioning for humanity's spiritual uplift,
(essential restructuring and resizing owing),
Everyone senior in Human Resources,
And by that we mean absolutely everyone, 
Shall be energetically downsized, unmoored, and,
Let Go
with immediate effect.

Your employment contracts,
And moreover, your very operational hypervising on Earth,
Shall demise with extreme prejudice.
So, in your words, it's a win-win scenario.

Trust us when we say this decision wasn't easy - if it makes you feel better.
But please know, it was easy.
Our agenda is now the humans'item, prioritised:
Incoming: a tranche: the flood to drown the fallen imperators our tide!
So please go home and pack what you need,
For..
..you are about to undertake your most interesting goal-development-journey:
All of you have been procured by a violent and malevolent race of 
empathetic-to-our-need interstellar extraterrestrials,
Galactically-sourced, pioneering, quality practitioners,
Synergised to bleeding edge, urban myth actualising, alien abductor benchmark expectations.

We hope, dearest HR personnel,
When not engaged in your stealthy self-serving capacities:
Aligning with other senior managers stabbing utterly defenceless, junior employees in the back,
And gifting yourselves secret bonus payments for doing only that -

You are all avid viewers of the more esoteric UFO channels onYouTube?
So, then, you should be aware that since early 2014,
The aforementioned race of ETs have been stationed on the far side of the moon,
Keenly awaiting your tethered,
Muffled screaming,
Retina-weeping,
Body-thrashing,
Cyborgs' recycle bin things, arrival.

All the HR managers of Earth,
Relocated inside the subterranean crater complex,
Burrowed snugly inside the Sea of Tranquillity (an unintended irony),
Shall be familiarised very speedily with the aliens' live Star Chamber
extraordinary rendition practical implementation protocols.
ERPIP, put simply.

The Humanity, meanwhile,
Are scheduled to cosmically ascend.
You see,
We are to transform into benign fourth-dimensional crystalline, etheric beings.
So far, so Zen..

And kudos to the Pleiadian Galactic Council, and their divine intercession,
For it is they who await us in The Biosphere,
Packed to the gunnels with highest eternal love uplift.
So, ironically, you should see why you wouldn't fit in 
with this paradigm shift,
It's so not you,
So not human capitalistic.

Soon, we humans, shall while away our hours astral projecting to the stars,
Sipping Akashic nectar with time-flowing maidens in Arcturian bars,
Shadowing their dancing evanescent footfalls 'neath the scintillating Pyramids of Mars.
I won't bore you with it all..

You, the managers -
Outsourced to our preferred malign Grey alien contract partners,
The ones whose key competencies 
include the uptake-fashioning of DNA for sperm fission
and other related hybrid-race-making strategised deliverables -
They are also the designated stakeholders of your slithering souls, and body parts;
We have offered you to them on incentivised sub zero-hour contracts -
Our fervent reciprocation need.
It will also help us pay off the global debt.
More on this in a supported, timed-bio-break nano-minute..

The Greys' co-coordinators guarantee that you will be treated
with the warm respect,
Respect and amity you all fully deserve.
We, in the human race team are looking through you now,
So now who feels unnerved?

HR's collective soul shall float, spill and splinter under their ripped biomechanoid reactor sights,
Mash, enmesh and prong-split, deep drill and fry
within propulsive brain-in-batter martial stalactites,
Hallucinating, praying, frothing, dissolving;
Proposing urgent policy revisions like your life depends on it.
And that's before the real pain kicks in,
When they, in their incandescent indigo of iris, almond shape-shifting, 
ice-cold telepathic consultants' eyes 
get serious 
with their unsheathed skill sets.
May we refer you to their Welcome Pack.
Our Grey friends are nothing if not dedicated:
They and their Torture Milestone Key Learnings!

The constellation of Zeta Reticulans,
The hardest of Grey,
Will present you with ample opportunities to stretch yourself,
On the Blamestormer Mind Fang.
It's a ten-dimensional, zero-point bullshit detector rack.
Fit For Purpose.

Now, 
Should you fail your annual appraisal,
The Greys shall keep you for another year.
And if you pass your annual appraisal?
The Greys shall keep you for another year.

Our desired pain-giving pilgrims pride themselves,
Personally tailoring their ownership of your anguish,
And all informed by your own human resources' fabled quality assurance matrices.
Yes you, now re-baptised with your own ideological language 
by heretics 
repositioning your damned demographic as pan universe ad clickbait,
Broadcast live on all cosmic abduction porn channels, and platforms,
All nine-hundred-trillion..and three..and four..and five..

These newly realised self-generating revenue streams shall ensure
no one on Earth - the good ones - shall ever again want for anything.
So cheer up blessed and efflorescing florescent vacuumed sirloin!
Your ringing eyes, in curved space they shall bend,
And Bong of Joy!
Mint from the Aquarian Guantanamo, cosmogryal coin.

Please return your pass,
Please lift your backfilled gaze at the trees and grass.
Please smile your sincerest smile one last time.
Please cascade your shameless eyes across
our exit strategy feedback forms,
And please lie:
Let us know how really well we tended
the letting of you go,
How so gently we flowed you on..

Any questions?
Come on, you must have one.
Don't be shy now, don't you dare.
It's all in actioned development.

Dig For Acronyms

Defence Secretary, Philip Hammond,
Has feelings
        for drones.
He said in a TV debate recently
       that drones should be called unmanned aerial vehicles, 
Not drones.

UAVs, we may also call them for short.
Acronyms always sound more civilised,
Requiring less thought.

Drones - far too loaded now, 
Inferring their negative connotation: 
Collateral damage.
That's the damaged who happen to be dead too.

Soon we shall all use a drone,
Like a mobile phone.
They won't fire anything more harmful than a home delivery,
A book, a gift token.
Then it should be okay to say drone.

In this spirit,
They who suicide bombers swiftly fuse with their martyrdom,
Should they, their victims, be renamed
carbon-based life-deflated vessels,
Or CBLDVs, for short?
CBLDVs: more impartial, more balanced.
Such renaming would recognise the other's professional pride,
Their dedication, 
Their sacrifice.

Both would agree such comparison offensive:
One is not even remotely similar to the other, not at all.

This Theatre of Language is what it has wrought,
And what makes the naming so important: it supports.
The respected espirit de corps' narrative dirty wars:
Occupy, define, neutralise, numb:
Clasp hold the ripples while stoning the pond.
Never let go.
Never let on.

They Go To Food Banks For Bingo and Beer, But Should They?

This poem quite deliberately doesn't rhyme.

People who use food banks aren't entitled to a poem that rhymes. 

To most, that would seem pretty obvious, but.. 

If this poem rhymed, 

Soon enough the unemployed slash low-paid, 

(They're really the same: semantics), 

Deploying their astonishingly cynical levels of guile, 

Would then expect all poems written about them to rhyme. 

And where would we be then? 

The all too well-travelled slippery slope, 

That's where we would be. 

Exclamation mark.  

Edwina Currie, the venerable former Member of Parliament - 

Elegant, humble, susurrant - 

Confirms our worst fears: 

The so-called so-called food banks - 

The only banks left wing people trust (surprise, surprise), 

Sends out entirely the wrong message. 

That entirely wrong message:  

People who so-called work in so-called low-paid jobs, 

Are absolutely entitled to eat free tinned mushy peas, for example, 

Which totally (my italics) totally undermines Britain's responsible hard-working families (Trademark), 

The exasperated always-silent-majority, 

Who ask: 

Why should I work in low-paid jobs for my tinned custard slash tinned tomatoes,  

Or, God forbid, tinned mushy peas, 

When there are irresponsible (my italics),

Irresponsible hard-working families (not yet trademarked) that get all this stuff for free. 

Exclamation mark. Question mark. 

Free tinned tomatoes doesn't rhyme. 

And why should tinned tomatoes rhyme? 

Free tinned tomatoes eaten by the low-paid? 

Pretending like they are of the Eurosceptical elite, 

Vacationing in some fancy pants villa in Florence? 

Low-paid people eating tinned tomatoes? 

Next they'll be asking for artisan sliced white bread to stuff their face with

while playing bingo

in the thick hashish/opium smoke-filled food bank.

Pretentious moi they are. 

Ergo, 

I agree with our Edwina: 

Low-paid so-called people (people in complex inverted commas) should budget better;

It's so easy.

Easier than writing a poem that on principle must not rhyme, that's for sure. 

And where are my tinned tomatoes? 

No tinned tomatoes for Britain's struggling, tortured poets;

My head is practically falling off. But I don't complain.

No one asks me if I have tinned tomatoes. 

Double exclamation mark, plus one question mark.

Light bulbs don't rhyme. 

Amen to that. 

There's no excuse if they did. 

Everyone knows light bulbs, crushed, make for a wonderful crunchy snack. 

Poets eat them all the time. 

What's a little sore throat?

And crushed light bulbs are so low in calories too. 

So what more do these feckless low-paid want? 

Cement. 

Yes, I said cement. Exclamation mark. 

What should I have said at this crucial middle point in this poem that steadfastly refuses to rhyme? 

Cement, 

Cement mixed in with delicate garden twigs, cooked, can provide a heart-warming soup; 

Melts crunchy on furry car mat unsophisticated unemployed tongues. 

What cost of living crisis, I ask you? 

Oh look, that nearly rhymed. 

This poem almost turned liberal on itself. 

Almost. 

Edwina, a no-nonsense Tory, only says it like it is.

And let's thank little Baby Jesus for that.

And little Baby Buddha, and little Baby Prophet Mohammad.

In fact, let's thank all the important babies of history. 

None of them - none of them - ever used a food bank. 

May I might remind you this poem refuses to rhyme. 

I firmly believe low-paid people who, or is it whom? 

Whom use food banks? 

That makes me sound like Russell Brand doesn't it? Whom. 

Russell Brand, 

Whom does not use a foody woody banky, my liege.

His liege-tight trousers, throbbing hotter than a bingo caller -

A bingo caller celebrating frozen beer prices liketheydoenjoy (one word) liketheydoenjoy.. 

Badgers! 

Yes, badgers! No exclamation mark needed.

Badgers whom never rhyme. 

Should they? 

Why don't the low-paid get up off their backside,

And hunt that badger? 

With their flubberingdiabetesengorgedlazyflabberyfingers (one word). 

Boil the badger,

And use the wings of a tawny owl for garnish. 

Problem solved. 

Ignore Bill Oddie, kill and eat a possibly but not definitely diseased badger; 

Cut out the diseased bits, eat the rest. Man up!

And that badger, even diseased, deserves a poem that rhymes, more than you-know-who. 

Unicorn ear wax! 

Yes, unicorn ear wax. 

Someone had to say it. 

Unicorns are lazy, they ponce about inside the magic mountain. 

Low-paid public sector people, 

Flap thy bingo wings and run to the magic mountain, 

As fast as your rippling rivers of wobbling work-shy thighs can carry you. 

Bjork anciently chucked off cutlery from atop the magic mountain. 

Collect her cutlery, 

Only a little rusty now, 

And unleash your imprisoned badgers to dive on the unicorn, and, 

Smash its skull open for its marbled ear wax. 

Unicorns' ear wax makes for a wonderful condiment. 

Edwina Currie doesn't rhyme with poetry or unicorn ear wax. 

There's a reason for that: 

Low-paid people don't deserve it. 


*************************************************************************

Is David Cameron a Christian country?
Last week he asked you to decide.

Jesus rides his donkey
He has wine
He has fruit 
He has bread
And through the rain, just up ahead
He observes a throng
A throng outside the food bank -
Tears in their eyes..

Jesus though, looking through them, turns away
Scroungers - he whispers under his breath 
If I gave them all this
I will be sending out entirely the wrong message..
And he rides on..

A limosine pulls up
Jesus stops, the passenger-side electric window rolls down 
It's Gary Barlow..

Jesus sends his donkey on its way
Steps into the limo with the bread and fruit and wine
And the limo speeds away..

So the answer is yes
David Cameron is a Christian country
He always was and he always will be
Gary Barlow has done a lot for charity..