School's out forever
Under these dirty skies,
Her dirty wings, they let her fly.
"Dirty Wings" -- Megan Slankard
Probably won't get a chance to write tonight, so I thought now would be a good time to inflict some of my poetry on you. But unlike the Vogon captain, I know you have the option of surfing away on the net when the pain in your left eye socket gets to be too much.
Here goes. This is something I wrote the other day after reflecting on the tangible aspects of Hell School (I mean High School): the physical, inanimate, emotionless objects that become charged with emotion in my memory. I think I'm done tinkering with it. For now.
"School Materials"
Everywhere, this maze
of energy-efficient cinderblock
painted with school spirit;
Up close each drip, each divet,
The glossy, porous wall,
I know it.
Blind, dumb mineral,
Dead, unyielding,
Unable to absorb my hurt,
Bouncing it back like
the clang of locker doors
or tetherball chains;
Cold, like the glassy squeak of gym floors,
Hard as the ring of voices off shower tile,
Cuts deep like the battering of the bell
whose Voice is Law buzzing in the walls
long after its clamor falls silent.
There all done. Now, that wasn't so bad was it? Was it? Hello? Aw, damn.
Her dirty wings, they let her fly.
"Dirty Wings" -- Megan Slankard
Probably won't get a chance to write tonight, so I thought now would be a good time to inflict some of my poetry on you. But unlike the Vogon captain, I know you have the option of surfing away on the net when the pain in your left eye socket gets to be too much.
Here goes. This is something I wrote the other day after reflecting on the tangible aspects of Hell School (I mean High School): the physical, inanimate, emotionless objects that become charged with emotion in my memory. I think I'm done tinkering with it. For now.
"School Materials"
Everywhere, this maze
of energy-efficient cinderblock
painted with school spirit;
Up close each drip, each divet,
The glossy, porous wall,
I know it.
Blind, dumb mineral,
Dead, unyielding,
Unable to absorb my hurt,
Bouncing it back like
the clang of locker doors
or tetherball chains;
Cold, like the glassy squeak of gym floors,
Hard as the ring of voices off shower tile,
Cuts deep like the battering of the bell
whose Voice is Law buzzing in the walls
long after its clamor falls silent.
There all done. Now, that wasn't so bad was it? Was it? Hello? Aw, damn.