atomic*girl*23
Bluelighter
“AND SO IT GOES”
i lean shallow breaths against wooden worn beveled edges at 4 a.m.
-- breaking thoughts and microwaving the rehashed lectures of the mornings
into quaint t.v. dinners for my pursuing day of exams.
the objective of four years of my life
(i have merely re-capsulated) is forming the joyce to tongue and cheek
the words’ intersections with themselves.
a sentence, a phrase, a paragraph rewritten
with new symbols, old concepts, but with lack of quotation curls.
if MLA tells me to enclose re-paraphrased thoughts in funny little squirms,
i do believe my exams would be littered with these cartoonists’ pencilings,
showing fluctuations in action or movements...
indicating the “borrowing” of a thought
(as though my hand could animate it to a new reality.)
imitated life and thoughts are strewn through
this metal colander we call “university.”
holding only the solids and “substance”
of the bullshit meals we are fed,
and oozing the nutrients and flavors down the
figuratively over-abused kitchen sink,
the menial education i have endured begins to siphon
my proverbial oxygen from my literary lungs.
the pangs of graduation begin like a mild heart attack in my executive appendages...
arms grow stiff and tingle for a taste of actual experimentation
(void constrained guidance from absentee counselors.)
like slumlord landlords to the house of knowledge,
the ranking officials make bank
and fill their fat stomachs with decadent cuisines,
light vaulted ceilings with chandeliers and central heating,
and shroud their skins with woolen pressed SLACKS
and DOUBLE BREASTED ARMOR.
their images convince us that they require said necessities to fight for our freedoms.
their crisp Windsors tighten with their plumpness
while we starve ourselves on their ALL-AMERICAN salisbury steak menus,
convinced that Grade E is for Excellence.
they fill our bottles with soured milk and sour dreams
and wean us all too late from a dry teat.
our superiors flame when we throw to them the product of their tainted meals,
and fowl at the stench of their own defecation.
knowledge takes the short bus,
riding on a donut and seething black emissions.
there is no room on #49—
the accountants needed to field trip to the dry cleaners.
and so it goes... we grapple at our “fortune” for fine reiterations,
and swallow our bulimic spoonings,
waiting mere moments to regurgitate the five course meal
we digest each semester.
tell me dean, how many credits will i fill with this one?
i lean shallow breaths against wooden worn beveled edges at 4 a.m.
-- breaking thoughts and microwaving the rehashed lectures of the mornings
into quaint t.v. dinners for my pursuing day of exams.
the objective of four years of my life
(i have merely re-capsulated) is forming the joyce to tongue and cheek
the words’ intersections with themselves.
a sentence, a phrase, a paragraph rewritten
with new symbols, old concepts, but with lack of quotation curls.
if MLA tells me to enclose re-paraphrased thoughts in funny little squirms,
i do believe my exams would be littered with these cartoonists’ pencilings,
showing fluctuations in action or movements...
indicating the “borrowing” of a thought
(as though my hand could animate it to a new reality.)
imitated life and thoughts are strewn through
this metal colander we call “university.”
holding only the solids and “substance”
of the bullshit meals we are fed,
and oozing the nutrients and flavors down the
figuratively over-abused kitchen sink,
the menial education i have endured begins to siphon
my proverbial oxygen from my literary lungs.
the pangs of graduation begin like a mild heart attack in my executive appendages...
arms grow stiff and tingle for a taste of actual experimentation
(void constrained guidance from absentee counselors.)
like slumlord landlords to the house of knowledge,
the ranking officials make bank
and fill their fat stomachs with decadent cuisines,
light vaulted ceilings with chandeliers and central heating,
and shroud their skins with woolen pressed SLACKS
and DOUBLE BREASTED ARMOR.
their images convince us that they require said necessities to fight for our freedoms.
their crisp Windsors tighten with their plumpness
while we starve ourselves on their ALL-AMERICAN salisbury steak menus,
convinced that Grade E is for Excellence.
they fill our bottles with soured milk and sour dreams
and wean us all too late from a dry teat.
our superiors flame when we throw to them the product of their tainted meals,
and fowl at the stench of their own defecation.
knowledge takes the short bus,
riding on a donut and seething black emissions.
there is no room on #49—
the accountants needed to field trip to the dry cleaners.
and so it goes... we grapple at our “fortune” for fine reiterations,
and swallow our bulimic spoonings,
waiting mere moments to regurgitate the five course meal
we digest each semester.
tell me dean, how many credits will i fill with this one?
