You know all those things librarians stick on library books?
No they don't, I do. All the library books in the country,
from a secret location in the wilds of Norfolk. Even, strangely
enough, the books that go to the University of Westminster
where I studied. Small world.
It's called servicing, and I wrote a poem about it,
for the sake of pretention.
Spare a thought for the servicing boy,
he does it for his bread,
Spread with butter, toasted while
you're still tucked up in bed.
He rolls right in, a quarter to
the time when sun's awake,
and grinds into three hour shift
for fifteen minute break.
To process books for libraries,
that's his jurisdiction,
And to wonder why they only want
historical crime fiction.
Stickers stuck, and labels glued,
and triggers down the spine,
making books for which forgetful men
will have to pay a fine.
Here's another order now,
and it's one to be hurried,
Library books to line the shelves
of halls where he once studied.
Isn't this some bitter pill
of cruelest irony?
I guess that's what you get
for having a liberal arts degree.
Can you pick him from the lines of drones?
I'll show you how to know him,
He's the one who when there's books to pack,
is writing a fucking poem.
(Melodramatic, actually it's quite alright and the people are lovely. )
It's a good excuse to shock me into posting again. Coming soon,
WIP on various and sundry art projects. Stay tuned
