Simultaneously tragic and compelling:
a vivid bag of Skittles strewn across the
tarmac of our landing strip.
A student body patronised by puns
promising us the world.
Eastern Avenue gang
tensions make first-years impetrate solitude.
Eloquent climbers of social kinds
hack at resolves when hours
and hours of “[Yours and ours!]”
lecture announcements blend
into stale smoothies of unmixable colours
and skittish behaviour.
Foul tastes are chased away –
but only when we stray for solitude.
Overgrown, gargantuan rainbow children
squirm beneath lecture screens to an
audience watching impossible future schemes
corrode dead air.
Their yelling and dancing pales cheerleaders in comparison:
“Me! The Saviour! I’ll be your bro!
[I want to be rich, so watch my nose grow!]”
It’s sad that nobody knows composure
withholding exposure in finite bounds whilst
CEO Andrew releases the hounds.
Pounds of flesh that indiscreetly, sweetly, march in file, in place.
Face away, pray tell them of indifference!
Lest they nick at your feet!
And run (intently, endlessly) to grant their grand defeat.
Obsolete will these “policies” be, when wraths of
priceless SSAF funding are bequeathed to hopelessness.
Your vote will count like Count von Count counts –
a droning and gradual prattling –
and stands for a process
worthy of constant cackling.
