There she sat across me calmly and sternly,
The kind lady who recruited me.
I had no words left to speak out.
They had disappeared in to the cubicle
I used to occupy.
I had kept quiet for the past weeks
Hoping that would soothe the boss
And her relentless persuit of me.

Not once would I regret the things I said
In my poor defence of problems
She caused and the blamed on others.
It wasn't her, I was just not smart enough.
It wasn't her inprudence and a software can't malfunction.
It was never her.

Sure I'm not perfect...
I willingly admit to that any day.
But I wasn't the first one
...and you won't be the last one
She attempted a smile
And said she'd call tomorrow.

But didn't it bother you

Yes but it wasn't worth quitting over

The truth is probably between the lines
And the enthousiasme of a Silverfox
A sweet man who never learned to lie.
Not even about the things
That were never introduced in words.
Or even a touch.

It all seems so unnecessary
But then I remember how she smiled
As he adressed her
And I realised my mistake
And what she was a victim of this time.
But it was never her fault.
I simply walked in to her territory...

rarely does an afternoon snooze turn
into a vivid dream,

not that it's certain whether
     an hour of unwinding after
a culinary labour can produce
the bare minimum energy potential
that translates into a dream at night...

added the fact that there is
such a genre of music
       minimalistic techno,    
             harthouse frankfurt...

      whatever the technicality worthy
of a music critic,
        boris brejcha has become
synonymous with
                       northern siesta...
if there was such an English movement
as northern soul...  
    might as well coin the phrase
northern siesta
     (notable choice of song,
                  dark planet)...

               maybe it might dampen
the resolve of those: ready to wriggle
to the elongating bass rhythms...
   but at least the music is not your
generic café cool...

     techno-***-jazzy-accents...
      or whatever is predicated upon
a quasi-Stasi (ZZ, S-Z / Z-S, SS, ß)
             category...

      | churchbells of the valley -
   scent of convallaria, interlude,
       preceded by°:

{a dream about bow ties...
       one aspect of the dream
akin to a newsroom,
    two invited guests,
        one of them holds a manequin
***** and shows off tying
a bow tie...
             the other guest is wearing
a tie...
     the dream shifts
     into: standing in front of a mirror,
choosing between
          a bow tie that suits
a pale crimson polka dotted shirt
or a silverfox bow tie suited
for the waistcoat}:

thank god there's literature,
     to interpret a dream...
          and all of it...
     is like reading a ******
                      astrology excerpt...        
  
the more interpretations are
available, the more they sound
like hot air, or as the already
       stated comparison:
          astrological ruminations
of the zodiac - hence the irony /
          not that I'd take his word
for it from Burroughs' my education
i. e. that opiates are dream-smiths:

    a safer option,
           tickling deep nocturnal excavations
might be best unergone
    with a prior to siesta...
       as if: sharpening a knife
   or dulling a hammer...
         given the frequency /
and capacity for vivid dreaming...

      and yes, the bow tie is
a focal object,
                     but no:
    i am more content with
   the dream per se
                      (given the scarce
frequency of i have of them) -
that seeking a meaning from it...

   a healthy dosage of scepticism,
always around dream-interpretation,
since i can't see an archetype
    of a bow tie as predating a tying
of a rope...
         manequin *****:
       acting out social formalities...
it's still a zodiac game,
          astrological gallows,
    a tongue pricked with a rose
thorn, subsequently whispered
into a girl's ear, revealing
            a blush blossom on her
   cheeks.

°scent stimulant, brought from
the market;
       via scent into visual
      revitalisation of dream remains,
stored subconsciously in the first
2 and 1/2 hours after waking;
    scent of white flowers
   stimulant, to rekindle
       the memory of dream colours.

p.s.
         some of this can be true,
but tested again for an analogue
        and a plagiarism rubric,
    i. e. scientific categorisation  
    (dogma)?
            
p.p.s.
                  dream recurrence...
or what's called the archetype
of a dunce...
                   how can times do
you have to dream, the same dream,
and not see it as a:
   dream within a dream,
   which is: a dunce standing
     before a blackboard
                investigating the plagiarism
                       of: Bartholemew?

simon cowell you just rant at others
for attention and the mentions
unravel your critiques on their dreams of stardom just make them realize
just make them realize..

the start are right there ...
just on the other end of that lovely black hole
dare to enter?

simon cowell
with your silverfox hair tinted
how much do you demand the light operator to keep the spotlight subtly grazing your hair fix
britains got talent
and you got the hair do that overwhelms crowds

simon says
but we don't want to listen
simon cowell
simon
hands cloaking an astonished appearance of awe
you do tell us how it is
and we will choose to make it how you want it to be

good guy