The Afterlives of the Anarchists

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.