Poetry from NHI publications

I work in Fact Reception;
We paste on this stuff we get from Feeling,
And if it looks good, or in the case of phrases
Sounds good, we stick it on the wall;

Paint for the visuals, ink for the verbals;
Then the Memory lot barge in and tear it down;
The Memory mafia pinch most of our stuff;
It's no way to run a gallery cum library; it's a madhouse,

I can tell you; look at the Reason bunch, in and out with cameras
And recorders, sorting out what they call coherent data;
A right lot of berks, if you ask me,
And neurotic to boot, scrub off our paint and ink. Obsessive

Idiots, they beaver at their boring index, which has,
So they say, a thin apex called Theory. We don't glance up at it;
We have our hands full, what with mad, drunk, slippery,
Obstreperous or collapsing facts; and the director's crazy.

Quiggins at the Conference
ISBN 0 903610 29 9

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