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Intent on the final bell ring
declaring spring for reals
as we feel every inch
a bag of hammered turds

You will have heard the crack
in every colleague’s voice this term,
felt the glut of panics
that the journey home may be in a hearse

Still, it could be worse,
and when the rear view
shows a dwindling, darkening school,
we’ll spend two weeks pondering how,
I love you lot.

You colleagues and loves who despise this
alongside me
so when my foot slips or knee gives
you are at my shoulder, my elbow

with a Kit-Kat or quick jab
about being old and ****
so giggles lift the misery
of ignorant, blind and fruitless bosses

while our loss seems their gain for now
I am bound to remember this refrain:
We’re not gonna take it

So, my brothers and twisted sisters
get those pitchforks ready,
sharpen in the dark,
keep being artisans

for when the time comes,
the spreadsheets won’t even be worth
the cold nothing they’re typed on
but your healing hands will
You’ll look close for all its feints,
its lies of needing you
being lost without
while the fingers on your windpipe tighten
and those tears come in place of shouting

loud, steady, drip-drip mention
of blissed futures,
dispatched, ***** pasts,
the present full
of passive aggression
where passivity is too nuanced

you’ll still be there with open arms
and a heart dark with hope,
but that tickle-whisper in your skull
is not just the concussion
not just
Today I began to hem,
rein in the threads that grow free
when left unstitched

I ticked a set of books
and, though I love my charges,
my heart hurt

My language is another,
my experience of this globe
unutterably different,
though geographically the same

And I want to help them play the game, I do,
but I don’t trust those
telling me how to

My instincts,
honed by humans I trust, unless
I’m lost in my own Truman Show,
show me the right way to go,
divergent  from this current shitshow

The pedagogy of care
is somewhere way, way
over there
I know which fat bells are tolling
with “Pupils come first” on lips
like a benediction spoke by those
whose fingers dip the collection box

But it can wait.

Piles of marking like ancient pillars
meant for Samson to do his thing
remain upright

Because a little tight in this metaphor,
Samson is for cooking a roast
playing video games
and watching the last gasp of TV,
anyone with me?
Dave Robertson Dec 2021
Having dispatched the sound rabble
with mostly love,
our already flaccid balloon
deflates with a final raspberry

a fitting fanfare to a term
that left its markers marked,

the shared mirth,
across eyes and hearts,
at a **** noise
proving once again:
we are why we’re here
Bryan Dec 2021
Zywa Jul 2019
If you are a bad child
in the eyes of your parents
they sigh
oh, what shall

become of you?
Others are harder, they scold
you and demand respect
for the authority

of faith and customs
They think you are a nihilist
because they don't understand you
and because you do understand

you cannot argue with them
But you try
to explain – no matter how nil
the rules are, there is one anyway:

do the others justice
“Nihilist” is a curse during the French Revolution (1789-1799)

“Otcy i deti” (“Fathers and children” / “Fathers and sons”, 1862, Ivan Turgenev)

Collection “Different times”
kiran goswami Oct 2021
My teacher, during the class said
"Women are Paralympians".
I had never heard a truer sentence.
ScaryGary Oct 2021
hold up, something is brewing on coals of commotion
story unfolding as cold as the northern ocean
don't ******* worry about the big-to-do
this buzz is my buzz and it's not meant for you

hold on, something is wrong you stumble all around
i'm only here to be a witness if happiness is found
soaking in the hopeless on stones as your bed
you said it once, but kept repeating what you said

ruthlessly using confusion to do your own abuse
then wallow in the hole left by what you just used
fluids in the northern ocean are so deaf and mute
cold water never knows how the truth can pollute
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