Tag Archives: school

30 – alma mater

this day is turning into ten years

and as i mill around from class to class,

all i ever excel at is the art of invisibility

and how to walk out of my own body

carrying a weight around, everywhere i go

and nodding until my head feels like

it’s no longer mine to move at will

but i endure, and keep my gaze down,

and stay out of trouble; out of sight,

out of mind, out of time—and wasting

away for four more dreadful years,

until ten years turn into a day.

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bang bang

a yesterday

or two ago

i watched

my child

grow up and

get married

.

but today

and in the now

i watched

my child

fall down and

get buried.

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ad nauseam

A visceral spilling

Crimson waterfall

Red guts uncoiling

Pierced in eyeballs

Vomit on the floor

Bile on the ceiling

A sniveling sick man

Drowns in his heaving.

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Concrete & Clocks

Time is ticking like pewter rocks

Another stony glare for the clock

Paralyse, stupor, lethargic, stuck

The yawn escapes, I’m outta luck

Time is ticking, wasting the clock

Ideas hit me but they fail to knock

Ennui colliding like massive trucks

I’m falling out and dead like a fuck.

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self-distract

cheap distractions

working their way

past all suffering

under my skin

i’m laughing now

because i know

tomorrow, everything

is going to come

c r a s h i n g.

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on recitation #2

oh, but darling please

it’s not a matter

of else and eloquence,

it’s a matter of

nerves and nervousness.

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on recitation #1

attempting to participate

in recitation can be

just a total bitch

because no matter how

tired my raised arms

get, apparently i just

don’t fucking exist.

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sophomore soporific

bed weather

is mocking me

i’m lost in muffled

humming of a

drowning reverie

i could be asleep

this very moment

and dreaming in glass

but instead i’m

still stuck here dying

and rotting in class.

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A Box of Sharp Things

Please do not

Notice the fresh

Scars on my skin

It’s nothing—

My clumsy hands

Just slipped on a

Box of sharp things

Yet again…

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On Account of Accounting

Accounting lessons; 1:00 PM. There’s a dull humming invading every comatosed whim of my numbed-down senses, as my wandering stare loses its attention from the blackboard and stays to the harshly glaring rays of the stupor-inducing sunshine. Perspiration trickles solemnly down my neck, a steady saline river of liquid ennui, scribbling fluid retrospections on my scoliosis-slouch back. Nothing else makes much sense but senselessness. The discussion goes on, and the teacher, god bless her, but her voice is beginning to melt into the sound of the faceless grownups in a classic Peanuts movie, and I’m the exasperated Charlie Brown looking comically tired and uttering my disappointed interjection of ″Good grief.″ I sigh inwardly at the depressing thought. A speck of dirt flies past my jaded drooping eyes, almost taunting me as it basks in all its glorious and dignified freedom, and I can hear a squeaky voice at the back of my head blowing raspberries and chanting ″You’re stuck and forced to endure this torture and I’m not, suck it loser!″. I send it away with an aloof glare and a whiff of carbon dioxide from my dry cracked lips, and the high pitched voice trails away with an indignant Darth Vader yell of NOOOOOO, as the dirt speck finally disappears from my line of vision. Yes, I am seriously picking quarrels with infinitesimal matter. I am either very much insane, or have transcended all the limits of human boundaries and am, in fact, an omniscient god who can communicate with inanimate objects. An audible laugh accidentally escapes my throat in a choked hiss at such ludicrousness, and I hastily attempt to cover it up with a weak and pathetic cough. I clamped one heavily-doodled hand to my mouth to prevent any further unfortunate situations, as the teacher’s pupils (well, the ones on her eyes anyways, not the students) twitch in suspicion and scan the tepidly simmering room, ears perked up and nostrils slightly flared in alarm. I duck, scratch on my soaked neck awkwardly, and feint nonchalance by pretending to copy down notes in order to avoid her accusing eye contact, earnest visage etched on my face as I am actually writing this down. The sunlight tears against the glass panes more invasively than before. The room grows stuffier and unbearably hot, the students sliding into a gregarious and palpable grudge, the teacher’s voice sounding more and more like a drone of disturbed angry wasps, buzzing and incoherent. There is nothing else to do but further degringolade into the void of boredom as my neurone flickers off and commits suicide one by one. I hang my head back and absentmindedly gape at my besmirched hands, the vantablack Sharpie ink on my tanned skin shimmering as it separated itself from the dermis and began to float upwards like helium balloons, calligraphic band member names and splintered song lyrics dancing and fusing in an amalgamation of odd letters and incomprehensible symbols, right before my delirious hallucinating eyes. The sky grows temporarily dislimned as the vicious sun gets blocked off and hides behind a passing temperamental cloud. The students become a caricature tableaux of a cautionary cry for help, melting into human puddles along with their creaking plastic armchairs. The unknowing teacher rambles on, lost and deafened by her own static white noise. The cycle continues. It’s official: I am clearly very much insane.

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