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This poem is another more recent one, and it’s a true story about when I got a papercut from my notebook. I hadn’t started writing – it cut me when I opened it up – and so a poem came out.


Even my notebook
wants to kill me.

It didn’t slit my throat
but it did cut my finger
and now I’m injured
and immune
to hepatitis.

I’m not immune –
I’m susceptible.

I think I’d better get me
a double shot
of tetanus;
this baby’s wild,
she’s got teeth
and spit,
a little sawdust.

My computer
once shocked me
into submission;
I never forgave it
and so I bought me
a new one.

The new one
shocked me

life is a shock
to the system,
and death is
a half-arsed
partial refund,
just ask the junkies I saw
in documentaries.

They live by the second
and I’m glad
I never joined in.

I bleed enough as it
without a needle pinch.

Published inPoetry

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