Those staples in their foursquare silver strips
Stacked upwards like some brutalist
Manhattan office block
Were teased apart by fingertips
And, jammed down in the stapler at half-cock,
Sent shockwaves up my wrist
Then pushed back in
They pierced the skin,
Refusing to align
With folded A4’s creased and crooked spine.
Another bead of blood. Another botch.
Another pamphlet not quite straight
To join the dodgy pile,
Another squat for Special Branch to watch.
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