Waste of Time
Horny little drats
poised on the edge of their seats
anticipating their turn
in the verbal circle jerk
that is this class discussion
on some ridiculously boring piece of poetry
by some poor sap
who just wanted to be immortal.
Listen to them babble on and on
and on
about nothing
and nothing
and more nothing
rubbing their clits raw with
eyeballs all bulged out about an inch
and screaming
LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!
I’VE GOT NOTHING TO CONTRIBUTE!
BUT LOOK AT ME ANYWAY!
Thudding the zombie corpses
of dust-covered ideas and stolen opinions
with a loaf of flaccid bread
not worth the two cents
plus tuition
it cost for them to speak in this room.
I could be somewhere else.
I could be doing something else.
I could be writing something meaningful
or something equally boring
or even maybe studying
but more than likely, sleeping
instead I'm listening
to “the next jk rowling” tell everyone
that she doesn’t understand what "the symbology" is
and that, even though she
professes to have been writing since she was 5 years old
she had never thought to write any poetry
outside of four line rhyming stanzas she mislabels as
“paragraphs”
In awe of it
like an infant realizing for the first time
that she was never bound to crawl
in that one direction she’d always crawled.
The professor calls on me
I give him a line of crap about the cadence, or something
- I don’t remember exactly -
the thought becomes the fresh dead horse
for the next twenty minutes
each class member taking turns
tossing their pseudo-intellectual seed upon it
I reach the tipping point of my give-a-shit teeter-totter
The clock’s thin red arm scurries in a circle
it does not share ms. rowling’s epiphany
so, like a blind mouse
frantically but meticulously
and without much success
goes went about
sniffing out an exit
Go little rodent
Go!
Horny little drats
poised on the edge of their seats
anticipating their turn
in the verbal circle jerk
that is this class discussion
on some ridiculously boring piece of poetry
by some poor sap
who just wanted to be immortal.
Listen to them babble on and on
and on
about nothing
and nothing
and more nothing
rubbing their clits raw with
eyeballs all bulged out about an inch
and screaming
LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!
I’VE GOT NOTHING TO CONTRIBUTE!
BUT LOOK AT ME ANYWAY!
Thudding the zombie corpses
of dust-covered ideas and stolen opinions
with a loaf of flaccid bread
not worth the two cents
plus tuition
it cost for them to speak in this room.
I could be somewhere else.
I could be doing something else.
I could be writing something meaningful
or something equally boring
or even maybe studying
but more than likely, sleeping
instead I'm listening
to “the next jk rowling” tell everyone
that she doesn’t understand what "the symbology" is
and that, even though she
professes to have been writing since she was 5 years old
she had never thought to write any poetry
outside of four line rhyming stanzas she mislabels as
“paragraphs”
In awe of it
like an infant realizing for the first time
that she was never bound to crawl
in that one direction she’d always crawled.
The professor calls on me
I give him a line of crap about the cadence, or something
- I don’t remember exactly -
the thought becomes the fresh dead horse
for the next twenty minutes
each class member taking turns
tossing their pseudo-intellectual seed upon it
I reach the tipping point of my give-a-shit teeter-totter
The clock’s thin red arm scurries in a circle
it does not share ms. rowling’s epiphany
so, like a blind mouse
frantically but meticulously
and without much success
goes went about
sniffing out an exit
Go little rodent
Go!
