I haven't posted in ages and ages, but for the past couple of months I've basically been writing reams of freeform poetry, none of which I really feel confident enough to have ripped apart online... So anyway, here's my ballad-style poem about private schools and wouldn't-it-be-funny-if-they-were-training-them-all-to-be-construction-workers-instead-of-businessmen.
High-flying parents like to flaunt
Construction-worker kids
And so they start their aeroplane parts
To be just like their dads.
The little girl with eyes like soup
Dreams big. She says, “I hope
That I’ll become as good as Mum
At welding bits of pipe.”
The air is thick: it clogs your lungs,
It swarms with heavy dust.
The leaden heat glows red. It beats
Their throats, now shrunk with thirst.
The teachers like to boost morale:
“Why, Maisie,” they remark,
“You’ve quite a knack: your welding lacks
Inventiveness. Good work!”
The boy who’d rather read a book
Cocoons himself into a knot
With nose to knee, he finds that he
Can only smell inadequacy.
