The Annual College Conference: A Poem Poem by Roger K.A. Allen

The sheep jump into the milky race
Prodded under for baptism by total
immersion
By limp wet akubras
And the crook of an old broom handle
Giving absolution and
Maintenance of Professional Standards In
certificate form,
And a squirt of drench
Called MOP’s Points.

The sheep emerge from wet railings,
Greased with years of lanoline,
And shake dry like drab dogs
Such is the Annual College Conference.
The sheep have congregated
For the collegiate crutching,
And a dab of tarry stuff
For a fly-blown rump,
To eradicate,
Non-evidenced based heresies
And maggots.

A young wether jumps high…
Through a non-existent gate
Into the holding paddock
Outside the Plenary Session.

A College ram,
Struts the paddock
Showing off his long testicles,
Ponderous and weighty,
Laughable for those
Who can see the emperor’s new clothes.

But this is the stuff
That makes the high-grade testosterone,
That fuel the College runs on.
He keeps an eye out for
An the errant lamb or ewe,
And guards against heresies
Or an original thought,
Or some societal insight,
That may wreck the gene pool
Or next year’s clip.

The Annual General Meeting,
Always held at 5pm,
On the second last day,
Guarantees a shortened sleep latency,
In the shackles of a meeting’s rules,
The constitution and a tired ballroom
With no fresh glasses,
And all the mints are gone.
Let’s limit debate
For all but the foolhardy,
Or the recalcitrant
In the front row
With the personality disorder,
And halitosis.
Snores from the back row,
Bill nods off as usual
To the company
Of a few hypnic jerks
And his lap’s satchel crashes
Onto hotel-emblazoned crockery
And the carpet-stain of cold coffee.

The Young Investigator Award,
For those unlucky enough to be under 35.
For some new blood,
Who’s taken the vow of silence
Not to rock the boat.
This eloquent Trapist on a drug company
grant,
Devoted his life and his marriage
To an obscure gene locus
Or an esoteric enzyme
In some far oft land
Of nude mice,
All for the accolades of the rams
And the flock
Who suppress secret insecurities
Perhaps even deep jealousy,
Lest, one day,
He becomes a ram,
To accolades,
And a bronze and satin weight
Hanging awkward around his neck
Like a loose noose,
Soon to be forgotten
When another gene locus or a nude mouse
Revolts to the fall of the guillotine
And the smell of laboratory ether
Or a better p value
And render obsolete
A life’s work
And three cardboard boxes
Of aging foolscap
And fading green graph paper,
To be destined to a dusty garage floor
Near Sophie’s old high-chair
Still used on access visits.

The trade display of pastures green,
Like Psalm 23,
Nubile nymphs and sensual charms
“Free” subliminal pens and long red
balloons
For the kids,
Reminiscent of condoms
Do they come in red?
Is she wearing a wedding ring?
Was she the one who came to my rooms
Wearing the five inch mules
And pedal-pushers,
Revealing her curvaceous calves
With such effect,
And a black blouse
With more than a hint
Of her tight ripe cleavage,
As she leant forward on my desk
To show me
A drug company glossy
Of alpha-2 bla-de-bla,
…Or was it the co-enzyme-3 receptor,
A quintessential p value
And Chanel 5.

Such is the Annual College Conference.
I could tell you more.