dungeon classroom

the prison guard is time
with his chrono-whip.
lethargy is my class-, dungeon-mate.

bubbling out from prof’s
vile mouth:
philosophical ennuis,
killing me with jagged
essences,
mysteries,
presences,
problems,
matter,
truths,
unfolding being
and three sticky hours
of slow, painful death.
of philosophical damnations
i halfly care about,
i turn a dumb ear
to the devil with his phi-trident.
marcel my arse!
eleven unlucky souls
cling to sanity with their
pens, jabbing and cutting
reality with incessant beatings
at the sorry, un-virgin paper.
marcel!
nth expletive.
i pray to the demons of education.
infest with holy gnats this
poorly-dressed prof.
have mercy on our souls!
no, our sanity!
jail guard, free us, i pray!

 

 

[We all have our bad moments inside the classroom: the time seems to be trapped in a tar pit and the teacher becomes an incarnate nightmare. I wrote this in remembrance of one subject in college – always a class between Marcel and a bad hangover. It was a Saturday class during the ungodly hours of 1:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon.]

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