i have been at war since i was 17
my assailants are small, sharp and well organised
though initially few in number they have grown considerably
and their territory is vast
down my cheeks
up my neck
along my jaw
over my chin
above my lip
the bastards grow
whether i’m asleep or awake
they soldier on in a tireless push
a war of attrition is their approach
like grass to the sun they sprout
populating my face
darkening my derma
they retexturise and reinterpret me
i grind my hand against their grain
already?
i didn’t ask for this
but the solution is simple
the methodology manageable
a trusty blade pinched between three digits
and as i waft my weapon under the tap i think
sometimes violence really is the answer
i put the razor to my skin and begin to scrape
and as the blade meets the stubborn stalks they pin off in their hundreds
neutered and nullified
an unfathomable violence
heard only in the minute scratching of my razor’s resonant reverberations
and these innumerable clippings coalesce
helplessly embedded in my wet italian menthol scented shaving foam
to be washed spiralling away to our lonely sewers
the mirror shows me back a blinking face
rosey, rotund, reasonable
something of the slapped baby’s bum in it
i stroke the skin of this young victor
a slick and smooth sensation
the battle is decidedly won
i think as i dab-dry my infantilised face
but later as i lie in bed
i know what’s to come
down my cheeks
up my neck
along my jaw
over my chin
above my lip
relentless
they’re at work again
they never stopped
the battle may be won
but the war is not
Patrick Shead
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