Dedicated to every graduate, student and unemployable youth who has, with best intentions, strived for voluntary work to prove themselves: to their monetary loss, to their potential credit, but ultimately in desperation and on the understanding that their precious mind is, because of this youth, seemingly unimportant to the act. Exploitation, flirtation and rejection. The cycle continues.
There is something European about the capital:
Mausoleums to art, vast colonnades
Imprison awe. On entering, a graduate
Looks over bifocals, tipped as if so lean
Inwardly; and you can tell by his mien
That he is overeducated, widely versed,
And underpaid. It says so on his badge,
Our museum attendants are zero-hour psychopomps
Directing us to empty exhibitions.
And, though every bureaucrat’s a weary Pilate,
Rolled-up sleeves, head hung in explanation,
Reasoning beyond reason for the application
Of a short-sleeves Barabbas to be, gently, declined,
Here among the keepsakes of the dead
Where skinny-legged Hermes bites his pen
Distractedly and dreams of embezzlement,
I most devoutly feel that, in occupation,
All institutions love antiquity.