School UK

I have been in hell.
A stomping girl hoo-yahs the male contingent
assessing her the other side of the class.
Two sharp-eyed boys, spun free
of their scarce frames, float in a manic ether,
to loot at random scarves and gloves. A mad four
whinnying girls are locked in an inescapable
strike. No work and nothing of worth. A giggling world.
Then there’s the witch.
See her skedaddle from a precarious order
to an anti-cosmos.
Long hair and glittering eyes, a concealed i-pod,
she bays harsh songs.
Forever writhing against a chore of writing
she tickles the fancy of a nest of devils
hidden in minds about the room.
Of whom one
puts his feet up on a girl’s jacket, gnaws,
sniggers, twists up, revels in his ferrethood.
Here’s a bull, still thirteen years old,
testing the corners of a room-turned-field.
A grin on this one, an appreciative canine;
while a morose and towering boy-turned-sandworm
issues ejected paper on the air.

A crazily upset child turns tables over.
Another scampers close to the floor, an infant
who cannot learn to stay in a chair.

A death-class
of Year 9 half-filled with unfortunates
who cannot learn.

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