Sacrificial Versions

There was some confusion at work, resulting in a long email chain. Basically, a recently uploaded file had been appended with a different version number to the most recent version saved in the archive (“the vault”) which was supposed to be the source of truth. When explanations failed to hit the mark I resorted to poetry.


Reality is multifaceted, they say.

The way which can be spoken is not the true way.

We find our anchors where we may.

Our source of truth, the Vault remains.

If there’s a mistake, then realities change.

Version 1.1 and 2 are the same.


It seemed to do the trick. Practical mysticism is a thing.


Someone took the scissors from the print room at work.

Someone left a passive-aggressive note to ask for their return.

Someone returned the scissors and created a metaphysical dilemma.

Where are the scissors?

Have they ever moved?

Where am I?

What is this place?

How can we be sure what we are seeing is real?

What is my relationship to something I perceive?

Do I create the scissors or do the scissors create me?

Why am I shaking?


Where are the scissors?


I just can’t handle this.


Sciss … or…


My creative friend cares about the environment



Irony Bark


Office party

Suits and umbrellas
Managerial fellas
And strife when the toner is low.
When transport runs late
And the client’s irate
‘Cause the last data entry was slow.

There’s a note on the kettle
Constructed from nettle
Though in language so friendly and sweet.
While the boss is away
The hierarchy’s at play
Weaker players end up on the street.

Did I hit ‘reply all’?
Should I send it again?
Is the deadline for that pile next week?
The staples have vanished
And you’re feeling famished
The phone rings but you don’t want to speak.

We remain in our chairs
Unaware that our cares
Are a speck as the whole world walks by.
But here we refrain
Unperturbed by the rain
Out of fear our bank balance runs dry.