mrs. mooney’s poetry class 101


The entire room metamorphoses into Ragnarok

When Thor walks in

His comical nose ring

Not quite, like his beaded, funny stance,

Sparkles dominance, ready to dash

Right through my secluded eyes;

Cocksure, exhausting and transcendental

Like his claims inside common words like pink,

Onions and Armageddon. Of fervid images

Peppered generously around

His phallic and acrid poems

He is my favorite classmate. He insists logical lips to be

A justified poetic formation. Sometimes, Mrs. Mooney

Does not yank his denouement.

Sometimes I think

I am even in love with him

As he sits across me in class

I secretly hum B-52’s Deadbeat Club,

A song he adores, weighing whether

I’d win over his Mjollnir if

I tell him I am Jane Eyre

Probably not. From where my mouth

Hangs open in disbelief

With my own share of

(hidden) Shitty deeds, he controls

His nimble weapon

And catches it splendidly

When it ricochets back to him.

Yet the coldness

Of my Victorian clout gives me the blues

When his logical lips,

His idle tact,

Ruptures thunderbolts over testaments

Enough to give me chills and

Enough for me to espouse my God forbids

But I succumb to mighty MUTENESS.

Otherwise, I will spew the desire to rake

Through his flat eyes and to

Exhort the use of powder

For his oily oily face

Besides, my classical taste

Trembles

With disgust

Towards Germanic blight being

Too shrill to watch over my curtained meteors

Slicing my genitalia every time I hike up my skirt

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