"Don't be here in ten years." – The Factory Line

Posts tagged “woodworking

On The Fence (Poem)



On the Fence


The class-rage was real

Lehane had called it

And it was true, alright.

He felt it,

He knew it

Years of sobriety

And a college diploma

Had not deterred him from this anger


It was the caviar-liberals

And other intellectual elites.

Their smug sense of contempt.

The way they wrote

The way they talked

The way they saw the god damn world

The way they were speaking

On behalf of the working class

While looking down on them just the same

Like we need to be salvaged

Like we need to be saved

If only we could all move to New-York

To be with the rich

And the literary.


There was such arrogance in their tone.

Such ignorance in their speech.


Don’t they know

That the working class

Enjoys the work it does

Don’t they know

We would take a long hard day

Of good and honest labour

Over the boredom

Of yet another literary festival.


Have they never run a hand

Against a massive piece of wood

Inches thick

To get a feel for

The grain of it

The length of it

The strength of it

To see the end result

In a simple set of planks

To know the looks of it,

The shape of it.

Feel love from it


Don’t they know the joy?

The loud, screeching noises of power tools

From benches to belt-sanders

The outbursts of sawdust filling in the workshop

As the swearing of loud men

Overcomes even the loudest of machines

“This bitch is too tight.”

“You cut too long.”

“Fuck’ out of the way.”


And bang

And bang


“You’re gonna get in, you motherfucker!”


Sweat mixes with dust

And a little bit of blood

It’s true

And the hands become stiff.

Stiff from the ruggedness of the wood

And the vibrations of tools

The drills and the sanders

The work carries on at good pace

And life feels like a god damn blessing.

The hours disappear behind the work

The day flashes by with a roar.

You forget about food

And drinks and the problems of the world.


Then there is the most beautiful silence in the universe

As the workshop comes to a halt

Once the wood is as smooth as a baby’s ass

And the dust is picked up


The smell of varnish fills the room

The faint stroke of brushes

Brings your mind into focus

The fumes fill you with satisfaction

As your day’s work comes to an end.


The guys are having a beer, now

Limps sore but feeling good


And scratches

And scars

Blackened from the work.


You wipe off your hands on your dirty Dickies

And grab a bite.

The radio is playing,

Music from another era

It’s shitty speakers

Barely audible

And you are deaf by now anyways



Creedence Clearwater Revival


And everyone is smiling.


So very few now,

Get the whole picture

The knowledge of both worlds

The joys of wood

And work

And the word

Even fewer of us

It is sad

It’s true

Care to write it anymore.