An English Literature Student: To His Own Beloved Self.

To his Own Beloved Self An English Literature Student Dedicates These Lines Eleven.

 

Heavy as only the alarm can be.

“Render unto Pilot what is Pilot’s, to Croft what is Croft’s.”

Another early lecture.

Where shall I hide my hangover?

Where is my liar?

 

If only I were

small

as the great Koan –

I’d stand up on the SU’s squared top

and bring it to turn with me without end.

 

If only I were

poor!

As a Business student!

What’s money to the soul?

Just devil’s shit.

All the shit of corporations couldn’t feed the revolutionary herd of my essays.

 

If only I were

quiet

as a demonstration,

I would hear my poems screaming

that no one is reading them.

 

Eleven past one.

Wake up from this soporific mumbling.

By what gods was I conceived-

so critical and so useless?

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