The poetboy keeps passing her notes.
"Your eyes are Marxist children,
Dressed in rags the colour of patience,
playing amongst the ruins of a bakery"
"I want you to deflate my apathy,
and digest my indifference,
and step on my intolerance"
"Skin is the least perfect tool
but yours comes closest to fulfilling it's purpose"
She looks at the ceiling,
wishing there was a God she could have a quick workd with.
(Extract - T: "Seriously?" God: "I blame the parents")
She turns the last note over and writes in perfect cursive:
"I'm more than willing to fuck you, Gerald
But no more of this nonsense, yeah?
Gerald is, after all, somewhat attractive
(in a slightly sickly educational-film way)
And how else is a girl going to pass time in a town like this?
Sex and chess, she declares silently, sex and chess.
She passes the note back to him
(And wonders about "data bleed"
as it moves between the hands of teenage cattle)
Gerald's eyebrows rise up as his hands clutch the folded paper,
his fingers explore it's contours for a moment
(After all, She folded this paper)
His eyes close and he appears to mumble something
(He is, he will later claim, singing along with the Halelujah chorus in his head)
then reads it and runs out of the classroom crying and screaming something about
T sighs and applies more eyeshadow.
The rest of the class
(AS European History, with a heavy World War 1 focus and a heavy Frace/Italy bias)
is staring and one should always look one's best for one's public.
After a silence that Mr Johnston should really have broken
were he not lost in thought -
(Extract: "Of course it was. You haven't told the kids the wrong date have you? You haven't, you really haven't. That won't happen again. It won't. It mustn't. Shit I think I gave them the wrong date. If I admit it they'll rise up and destroy me, if I don't admit it there's a chance one of them might notice and that always ends badly but... At least I have some hope this way. Oh god I can't wait to be dead.")
-T adresses the people:
"What did I do?"
(Her "I" lasts what seems like a long, long time)
[End. Not really sure, but I think I like T here. She may join forces or do battle with the Young Poet today. This started as a Young Poet number, actually, with him screaming at a girlfriend for writing incomprehensible verse about their relationship, but the whole thing was a bit meanspirited and blunt. So, um, instead you get aimless... this. Written whilst listening to: My Own Face Inside the Trees by The Clientele and Capo (South of Caspian) by Ganger. Though I imagine that T listens to a lot of Ladytron (the band, not the song) and Peaches. Five more of these to go then. I think at least one probably should be a Young Poet poem. I'll see if I can come up with anything for him. Oh, I am DEAD certain I've stolen "I can't wait to be dead" from somewhere but can't work out where.]
3 hours ago