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Anonymous
2015-11-17 05:06:42 Post No. 7361446
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Anonymous
2015-11-17 05:06:42
Post No. 7361446
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I submitted this prose poem for a course at a community college. How fucked am I?
He wonders if he could get away with pulling the fire alarm. Perhaps one of his friends would be willing to call in a bomb threat. “I could send Greg a text.” he thinks to himself. No…too drastic. He sneaks a glance at his watch as a parent drones on about her preferences for the curriculum. He hates her face for no particular reason. If she was any thinner she wouldn’t exist. But, Jesus, her tits are massive. She must have at least thirty percent of her body weight in her bra. He prays to various deities for quick release from this torture by way of spontaneous combustion. Nothing. Except for shrill demands to keep violent conflicts out of the history books coming from the twig woman. How is she still talking? Can someone call the clock on her? He contemplates making a run to the box of Kleenex across the room so he can crop dust every single sadist who decided to attend this meeting. He cannot imagine a finer use of Chipotle’s cuisine. He feels a pressure emanating from his colon that blends with spite and a distorted sense of justice. This is it. He forcefully breathes in and out through his nostrils as if attempting to clear his nasal passages. He slides his unsubstantial plastic chair back and stands up. As he walks toward the box of tissues he assesses his gastrointestinal situation. The time is nigh. He blows his nose in the paper infused with lotion and heads back towards his seat. His somatic nervous system masterfully orchestrates the precise relaxation of his external anal sphincter which made the horrendous act inaudible. No one ever saw it coming.
