Brighton College

το δ’ευ νικατω

Asinine poems, a bunch of teachers cute
with worksheets, and a colourless alloy
to go with metal pure of girl and boy.
A departmental scurrying in pursuit
of nothing but a cheesy substitute
for fresh well-water. I cannot enjoy
this set of papier-mâché smiles that cloy.
The smile has turned to snarl. I do not suit.

And so I turn my back on the rich garden
of an old school. The ground is ominous now,
as patches of its skin begin to harden.
A money-grubbing is the only plough,
a showiness the undeclared intent,
as a low thinking rots the management.

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