Close Shave

In my dad’s dad’s time

A Sheffield steel blade

Would have been honed

Against leather strop.

Cut-throat. Clinical. Clean.

Sans hyperbole.

Cared for, it would endure.


Now, I wield a wondrous

Five-bladed monster.

The latest technology,

Shaped by focus groups,

Sharpened by adverts.

Disposable.


Encased in pointless

Plastic packaging.

All style,

No substance.


Tiny bars to imprison

The cutting edge.

Aloe vera lubricates, protects.

No irritation, guaranteed.

So why am I bloody irritated?

£10 for four measly blades!

My skin may be safe

But I can’t help feeling ripped off.

Overpaid, over-hyped, overblown

Promoted by a prancing primadonna

Waltzing across a field of green.


Enough to make me

Wonder. What went wrong?

Why do we need such waste?

I might as well grow a beard.





If you have enjoyed my poetry on this blog, my new collection, “Little Green Poetry” is now available from Lulu – – £4+P&P (paperback) or £2.50 (for e-book readers)

You can still order copies of my first collection, “Little Red Poetry” from http://www.leftbooks.co.uk or http://www.lulu.com – again for £4 (pb) or £2.50 (as a pdf for e-readers).

I hope you enjoy reading my poems, and, as always, all proceeds will go to help build the fightback against corporate political parties, to build a voice for the millions, not the millionaires.

To find out more about my politics, visit the website of the Committee For A Workers’ International, which is engaged in struggle in around 50 countries worldwide.

Busk For Socialism

Jammed

This is a tragic tale of the revenge exacted by the photocopier in the office where I work, whenever I actually need to copy something in a hurry . . .

Jammed

Brave folk stare in dread, as the winking light

Tells awful tale, paper’s perilous plight.

I heft the mighty paper-clip of yore

To wrest hard-won prize from copier’s core.

Cold steel, brute force and vast amounts of luck

Are willed to get this machine unstuck.

Hypnotic cyclops, red LED blink

Haunts me. Resolve to explore every chink:

Drums, rollers, cogs and wheels – but all in vain,

Retreat back to my desk, with thumb in pain.

Midst mountain range of paperwork, I sup

Restorative tea from polystyrene cup.

This weary worker has all-too-little hope

Of taming Behemoth’s infinite scope.

Sisyphus, had he worked in an office,

Would empathise, pause and cut his losses.

Bewildering diagrams of despair

Offer no succour. I shout and swear

Theseus himself could not navigate

Labyrinthine cogs and melted acetate.

Fellow toilers look on as if aghast

I’ve finally lost my marbles. At last

I summon courage, with head bowed, return

To fabled field where battle must be won.

Meagre crumbs, 80 gsm, are strewn,

Error messages read like magic rune,

But nothing here to aid my noble quest.

Metal hands of clock sweep from east to west,

Fatefully tick away my precious time.

Sod’s law dictates I need this done by nine.

Then I spy – elusive sheet of white A4

Wedged at the back, behind a hidden door.

Again my steely weapon is employed

To free this obstruction which cruelly cloyed

Innards of this maddening contraption.

I pull and finally get some traction.

Out comes mangled mess to rival Gordian

Knot. Twisted, this tortuous accordion.

Triumphant, infernal doors slam home.

But due to internal, mischievous gnome,

Yet another blinking LED foretells

More jams, torn sheets and angry tortured yells.

Technology that never bloody works.

Just when needed, it invariably shirks.

Notes

This is an example of mock-heroic verse, where the poetic conventions of epic poetry (reference to mythological heroes, rhyming couplets, etc.) are made fun of. Feminine rhymes are employed for comic effect, where two syllables are rhymed at the end of a line, “machine”, “a skein” / “Gordian”, “accordion”. The subject matter is mundane, a jammed photocopier, but this is transposed into a poetic form traditionally associated with great battles or heroic deeds.