The Stapler – By @shein_dean

Marc lewis | April 5, 2019

Posted in Blog|Front|Home|Keep

By Dean Shein

 

The Stapler

 

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Chomping away. Biting the bits that need binding. 

Munch. Monster Munch. This jagged black shiny sphinx is lurking on the office desk. 

 

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Borrowed but never bought. The stapler is a humachine. A zigzag flow that sees metal made. Deformed along the way.  Who are we really in this metallic damnation?  Won’t we ask ourselves?  Won’t we bleed the led that has just been said? Will we mask the past and filter it through, one at a time, a system of true. The fact that the dead carnivore is gnawing at our soul. And yet we stamp our mouths together. Rinse and repeat. Coated in this sludgy grey curd. Fuel and gruel becoming the rule.  

 

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Jolting intangible documents together to form a thick emulsion. But not anymore. Now times are distressing. Flee and go home. Erase this community. Pen some feelings. And then let the eradication continue. When do we rest? When do we really get to lie? Up all night dancing in the new. Cross the border and now we become the hunted. Fitting. Not fitting. The retreat is fleeting. Something so tribal is relinquished. 

 

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Let us feast. Wretched baked blocks. If I were dusk I’d ask dawn what was sworn. Amend this practice and get on with the show. But do not quit your day job. Let us stay and watch the Hole punch. Left. Right. Hook. Jab. Paper disintegrating into dusty form. Wonder why white is pure and we still can’t confirm. Black most certainly is back. You’ll get shot… For the cover of Time. 

 

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Cut ‘N’ Dive ‘N’ Strut ‘N’ Strive ‘N’. Spiraling out of control. Thought and feeling entering the black hole. The dismal abyss seems only to kiss. Synchronized folding flesh. Piercing straight through. Just a quick thought, while sipping your brew.

 

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Take it in the stride. Suck up the fluoride. Reverse it all. Something to finally be feared is now production we have neared. As a wise man once said. ‘Metal is now Dettol.’

 

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I yearn. yearn for me. yearn for the sea. yearn for the night of day. yearn for the promise of a system that we cannot oppose. Where work is the overdose. Do you know what your arid state is listening too? What it is glistening through? Clap. Clap. End session. Begin the humbling depression. 

 

 

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I seldom speak of this tranquil past. Wild childish gore. Don’t wake old man, as he will never snore. Stop the crumpet. With your trumpet. And still, we are vacuum packed. Compressed then repressed. 

 

 

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Keep them coming. All file through. We win again. Organized. Trains arriving. The foot is out and the gun is gliding. Keep them impactful. Intact, full. The question is not whether the stapler is out of staples. But rather how many it would take to stop the melancholy bile from cramping it’s style. 

 

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The copy scores 91.6 in the Flesch Reading Ease test