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