Post Trauma Poetic Disorder. On all the bad poetry the muse of trauma inspires. |
A.A.
Late for school as usual Alamin, Why? OK! Then sit In the corner and not a word Write a poem about the disaster Film you obviously saw last night When you were supposed to be Doing your maths. Homework's pants! So too The whole stupid goody-2-shoed class With their tight fingers stuck up their lips Already have their girly pictures pinned To her ugly backed display board; Hung, drawn and slaughtered. They’re all so gay! I hate this earth-pig day Want to leave now or even cry Just keep seeing the pen ‘n’ ink lie Passing over the new white order Of this lined paper. Keep the cool, you yoyo schoolboy, Sit and sort it, plot and ploy A plague of aardvarks on her jewelled neck Rotten missy, who does she think she is Anyway, with her two silly faces The statue of liberty, some big Bright spark in the city, Like my dad in the cockpit? I’ll sort her, don’t you worry! Got a rocket in my pocket, Gonna blast her when I’m older Going faster like I told her Pile on her a loadda diss. Pencil needs sharpening miss! Turns a face, pretends not to listen Questioning them instead all sat stuffing Popcorn in their stupid mouths on the magic carpet, Shoulder to sycophanatic shoulder (Check your spelling boy) Saying all the right meaning things She wants them to like, like I liked the part when the plane swerved past the tower. Didn’t you miss? |