Yeah, dad, I love Math class
cos something is always adding up there

like just the other day
the teacher’s plants at the window
started growing square roots
The teacher reckons that’s cos
“the windows are squares, if you notice” -
but I reckon it’s cos
we’ve mostly got squares in class

And the teacher when she thinks someone
has done something good, she says:
“Oh, you are an angle!”
and when she’s cross she goes:
“I’ve told you n times”
or “I’ve told you n+ 4 times”

Yeah, we learn lots of stuff in Math class
like next week we going to learn
about Algeria;
but I’m not sure if my Math teacher is OK
in the head though
cos one day she tells us
3+2 = 5
and another day she insists
4+1= 5
(is that what you mean
when you say mum can never make up her mind?)
And she tells me not to use my tables
and she scolds me then when I do my division
on the floor

But I’ll say one thing about her though -
she’s so passionate about Math
my teacher is
she carries around a picture
in her wallet
of a big plus sign
with a guy nailed to it

I have lost my sun,
Though I still orbit in a strange attraction.

I have lost my music,
Though I know my heart sings sound.

I have lost my vision,
Though I see in dreams an impossible beauty.

I have lost my sense,
Though this world has never tasted as sour.

I have lost my purpose,
Though aimlessly, I write in the pale drear of twilight.

I have lost my reason,
Though I chart dangerous courses without a crew.

I am the last falls of the loveliest red proscenium
curtain.

I am over, undone, a foundling, lost,
Without you.

First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.  
He has Shaggy from ****** Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated. 
Wild cards.
All of us.

©Gambit '13

“Start a new chapter”

What a cliché talk of trash,
Sick of the story,
Sick of the characters
Sick to death of the bromidic lifestyle
Of our “protagonist”,
Who’s more of a *******.

No ambition, no talent, no heart,
No anything really,
Blind shots in the dark.

“I’ll stick to it” He says
“Everyday!” He declares
But everyday becomes every week
And every week becomes every month
And every month becomes-not every year,
But whenever-he-feels-he’s-capable,
Able to apply words into a fable
Of tongue tangling and mind rotting slur.

He’ll be going out today,
Wasting money on fatty foods and
Carbonated poison he doesn't need.
And in an almost pitiful attempt
To feel better about what he failed
He’ll say “I’ll try tonight” in a whisper.

Does he write tonight? Does he ****.

All edge and divides
Frightening truths, severed lies
You don’t walk through a crowd
For fear of taking their lives

Serpent tongue, serpent teeth
Rattles between lips, sealed
Spoke of many, far too many
Nonconformities

Cyclic reveries
The start and end don’t
Repeat
Just an infinite line
Parallel in
Retreat

Cyclic history
Stalled and stuttered to
Death
Just to rise once again
All mistakes and
Regrets