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Open Poetry #46
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It Doesn't Matter
| Open Poetry #46 |
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It Doesn't Matter |
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Daddy Goose38 Member
since 2010-09-04
Posts 430obama's a rice paper tiger |
It Doesn't Matter It is morning. I am sitting in the English classroom. We are to take the final exam. I have rarely been in this classroom And have not read all the material. In fact, now that I think of it, I haven't even read ... ... I know I am going to flunk but go through the motions of taking the test anyway. Because everybody else is working. I find a few sheets of paper that seem to have been left on the table at random. I put one into the Braille writer. I write my name at the top, then I realize it doesn't matter because mine is the only one that will be in Braille. The teacher begins reading out the questions, but there is such a jangling den of voices that I can not hear the teacher. Then it comes to me it doesn't matter because I am going to flunk the test anyway. I will have to tell Jean I can not hear. I over hear a scrap of something, a question that is being given for extra credit: What might it have been like to have interviewed Adolph Hitler? I have read and could write something about this. He would have asserted the injustice of Verailles. Again, it comes to me it doesn't matter because I'm going to flunk the test anyway. The room begins to move as if it were a vehicle. I feel the vibrations of its motions as it travels on the streets, stops at traffic lights, turns, etc. It stops at my apartments and I get off. It is afternoon. I am very tired as I enter my pad. I lie on the couch and hear the Death Song, an eerie, haunting, morbid melody, A shrill, tremulous soprano. that evokes chilling dread and foreboding, in a high quavering female voice, which can not be reproduced on Pip. I sit on a bench next to a man who is setting up his equipment. I feel the jolting vibration as he turns on the saw. I flee to the bedroom to wait. When he is finished, I hear him turn on my vacuum. to clean up the debris left on the floor. When he is finished, I come out to thank him. Then I meet his work colleague and a woman named Polly. There is a weird gurgling, hissing sound coming from one wall of the apartment. The man tells his work colleague that they accidentally cut through a water line, so that now water is leaking through the wall. It reeks with the rank and putrid stench of dead fish, rot, old algae and decay. The man tells me: no agriculture, which means don't eat in the kitchen, (you see, food is grown on farms). because it will be filling up with cold hot water. He will be back tomorrow and fix the leak. It is night. Everyone has left. I walk back into the bedroom and sit on the bed. I hear and hum the morose strains of the Death Song, in a high quavering female voice, A wordless, toneless dreadful dirge so melancholy and morbid, and so deathly are the feelings it evokes, that they just can not be reproduced on Pips. Floating |
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katahdin Senior Member
since 2010-07-01
Posts 1196ME. In the Shadow of the Mt. |
It doesn't matter...life goes on! Kat >^..^< |
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Eusta B. Mae Senior Member
since 2010-05-03
Posts 903 |
Sweet Daddy- oh those don't matter days and their melon collie ways they come uninvited gray matter be spited A heart cannot fill When a mind's free will has been taken away by a cursed don't matter day Hugs ebm |
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Daddy Goose38 Member
since 2010-09-04
Posts 430obama's a rice paper tiger |
Thank you, EBM and Kat. This redords a slumber dream I had some time ago, as Indicated by the bizarre shifts in scene and imajery. Don't think I could have composed such a weird story deliberately it was quite morbid buy thanks for writing  DG |
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