Hacksaw. Poem by Bryan Mahata

Gingered - teeth, like the aroma
of the blade matters?
cuts are cuts, you bend
over for the emasculation
and this hacksaw castrates those invalid -
in the workshop with paper cuts,
'pen - pushing', oh what a bloody fight.

hands shake violently like an exorcism
fear to ink slobbering drool - The DEFEAT
gives truth, proof that the gauntlet of
perfection is arthritis on my fingers,
they have seen the scarecrow
and his name is - Verse.