Caged Lioness
1 'O, thou art stuck.'
So saith She, of that one essay.
Selah.
2 'O, thou hath not invested enough effort.'
So saith She, of the menial assignments she gave for kids struggling with grammar.
Selah.
3 'O, thou thinkest thou art better than I.'
So saith She, of the student she sees a grand total of twice a week, 90 minutes each.
Praise be to the English teacher who has apparently acquired a degree in cognitive psychology, who possesses such expertise on my intents, on my thoughts, on the inner workings of my mind.
Selah.
What’s wrong with getting a B, anyway?
Never mind, don’t answer it.
You don’t really know, and anyway, I don’t want to learn from you.
I’m sick of this fraudulent phenomenon called “learning.”
I’m sick of this whole fucking system.
Why should I invest my waking hours, sitting at a table with whiny brats, screaming about the cockroach on the absent student's chair, say nothing of its million cousins just under the carpet because the district doesn’t have the funds to send an exterminator.
Why should I be forced to smile at a coop of cackling hens, fretting about every speck on their gold-paved road to guaranteed success, pecking at every whisper that’s not like their own gutteral clucks, incapable of simply looking up to bask in sunlight, of appreciating the sky in all its majesty, of realizing and being humbled by the simply reality that even if they shut their beaks for once, even if they ceased to exist, even if, this moment, a deranged, apolitical protected citizen of our great, humanitarian nation bombed us all to oblivion, the ant still crawls, the wind still blows, the rock still sits there, atoms still bond and mystify, the universe still is, humans still talk and laugh and write bad lyrics to bad songs, and fuck and fornicate and betray each other and keep on living.
That self-caged coterie of self-made ‘hens,’ those same bitches who every morning greet me with smiles of charming naivete and eyes laser-beaming their filthy disdain for me, for what I’m not even responsible for. Who extended to me the hand of everlasting friendship and offered to me the embrace of full acceptance then lay in bed— sick, indeed!— blind and dumb, crippled at the very moment of my greatest need. Who prowled in their incensed lairs of glow-in-the-dark crucifixes, waiting with malice for a stumble, so they could pounce on my corpse, gorging themselves on the foundations I set, the advice I gave, the information I volunteered, like vegetarian hyenas— ha! peaceful religion indeed.
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Just fyi, this is unfinished. I still need to create a big-bang ending to top off this flurry, but I'm struggling with it so I thought I'd post what I have so far. I really hate Mibba and Tumblr right now because they're not letting me post this in the format that I want [there are a lot of indents and stuff to make the epic a lot less burdensome to the eyes], but what can I say. I'm a fail.
Please let me know what you think so far, so that I can edit accordingly. Don't be afraid to be mean and say, "OMFG I DON"T EVEN GET IT" because it's okay, I kinda like harsh critics anyway. Just please be more specific so I can understand where you think I went wrong... and where I should tweak things.
The final copy [with the correct format] will be posted on my tumblr, seewahchu.tumblr.com
I don't know when that'll be, but it'll be.
This is inspired by Allen Ginsberg, one of the most [if not the most] famous of the Beat Generation poets, and one of my own personal favorites. From him, I'm breaking down the barriers of needing "polite" and "poignant" vocabulary for my poems. The boundary between prose and poetry is broken, but still there. I hope.
The beginning is indeed modeled after Psalms/Proverbs of the Bible.
I hope I'm not too specific to my own situation in the last paragraph or so. This whole thing is specific to the shit the afflicts my own life, of course, but I was praying [well, not literally, but you know what I mean] that my words will somehow transcend myself, be applicable to a number of individuals like myself, become universal...
I'm thinking about using this as an intro to a chapter of my story Mona, which is just a collection of ramblings about frustration with the universe, tied together with a very weak plot. There are several updates piling up to be published for it, but none of them seem to flow after the last posted chapter.
So saith She, of that one essay.
Selah.
2 'O, thou hath not invested enough effort.'
So saith She, of the menial assignments she gave for kids struggling with grammar.
Selah.
3 'O, thou thinkest thou art better than I.'
So saith She, of the student she sees a grand total of twice a week, 90 minutes each.
Praise be to the English teacher who has apparently acquired a degree in cognitive psychology, who possesses such expertise on my intents, on my thoughts, on the inner workings of my mind.
Selah.
What’s wrong with getting a B, anyway?
Never mind, don’t answer it.
You don’t really know, and anyway, I don’t want to learn from you.
I’m sick of this fraudulent phenomenon called “learning.”
I’m sick of this whole fucking system.
Why should I invest my waking hours, sitting at a table with whiny brats, screaming about the cockroach on the absent student's chair, say nothing of its million cousins just under the carpet because the district doesn’t have the funds to send an exterminator.
Why should I be forced to smile at a coop of cackling hens, fretting about every speck on their gold-paved road to guaranteed success, pecking at every whisper that’s not like their own gutteral clucks, incapable of simply looking up to bask in sunlight, of appreciating the sky in all its majesty, of realizing and being humbled by the simply reality that even if they shut their beaks for once, even if they ceased to exist, even if, this moment, a deranged, apolitical protected citizen of our great, humanitarian nation bombed us all to oblivion, the ant still crawls, the wind still blows, the rock still sits there, atoms still bond and mystify, the universe still is, humans still talk and laugh and write bad lyrics to bad songs, and fuck and fornicate and betray each other and keep on living.
That self-caged coterie of self-made ‘hens,’ those same bitches who every morning greet me with smiles of charming naivete and eyes laser-beaming their filthy disdain for me, for what I’m not even responsible for. Who extended to me the hand of everlasting friendship and offered to me the embrace of full acceptance then lay in bed— sick, indeed!— blind and dumb, crippled at the very moment of my greatest need. Who prowled in their incensed lairs of glow-in-the-dark crucifixes, waiting with malice for a stumble, so they could pounce on my corpse, gorging themselves on the foundations I set, the advice I gave, the information I volunteered, like vegetarian hyenas— ha! peaceful religion indeed.
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-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just fyi, this is unfinished. I still need to create a big-bang ending to top off this flurry, but I'm struggling with it so I thought I'd post what I have so far. I really hate Mibba and Tumblr right now because they're not letting me post this in the format that I want [there are a lot of indents and stuff to make the epic a lot less burdensome to the eyes], but what can I say. I'm a fail.
Please let me know what you think so far, so that I can edit accordingly. Don't be afraid to be mean and say, "OMFG I DON"T EVEN GET IT" because it's okay, I kinda like harsh critics anyway. Just please be more specific so I can understand where you think I went wrong... and where I should tweak things.
The final copy [with the correct format] will be posted on my tumblr, seewahchu.tumblr.com
I don't know when that'll be, but it'll be.
This is inspired by Allen Ginsberg, one of the most [if not the most] famous of the Beat Generation poets, and one of my own personal favorites. From him, I'm breaking down the barriers of needing "polite" and "poignant" vocabulary for my poems. The boundary between prose and poetry is broken, but still there. I hope.
The beginning is indeed modeled after Psalms/Proverbs of the Bible.
I hope I'm not too specific to my own situation in the last paragraph or so. This whole thing is specific to the shit the afflicts my own life, of course, but I was praying [well, not literally, but you know what I mean] that my words will somehow transcend myself, be applicable to a number of individuals like myself, become universal...
I'm thinking about using this as an intro to a chapter of my story Mona, which is just a collection of ramblings about frustration with the universe, tied together with a very weak plot. There are several updates piling up to be published for it, but none of them seem to flow after the last posted chapter.