To divert me from my impotent rage against the government and the Internet company, I once again trawl through my archives in search of a poetic offering to share with you.
I'm not really sure if this one is 'finished' - although it arrived fully-formed in my head when I woke up one morning, and I don't usually like to mess too much with those. I had gone to bed playing around with the phrase 'the cold kiss of the razor', and by the next day that had grown into this. Funny how the mind works!
By the by, my dangerously intense ex-girlfriend, The Poet, thinks this is the best piece of work I've shown her. I don't particularly rate her judgment (I suspect it's just that the dark twist at the end appeals to her suicide-fetish) - but praise is always welcome!
The Razor
The razor loves skin
Loves polishing it to shiny smoothness
With each morning's cold caress
The razor loves soap
Sweeping up great drifts of whiteness
Clearing a path through the foam
The razor loves water
Cool rinsing under the tap
Or boiling clean in a cauldron
The razor loves stubble
Scything through the rasp of the day's new growth
Reducing it to a litter of tiny twigs
But most of all
The razor loves blood
Each nick, each scrape, each lanced pimple
Is practice for the day
When it may open a wrist, a throat
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