Thursday, February 18, 2010


by John Grey

I sit way at the back,

spend the school day

chiseling pentagrams in the desk,

jabbing dolls,

muttering curses under my breath.

The teacher never calls

my name for anything

and I don’t volunteer.

In fact, he’s afraid of making eye-contact

which suits me fine.

Besides, I’m after bigger game than him.

I haven’t bagged myself a teacher

since Mr Hopkins hung himself

back in the fourth grade.

My goal is four politicians,

three religious leaders

and a pop star by the time I graduate.

Spontaneous combustion,

toppling marble lion,

bat bite, bathtub drowning,

even something pseudo-self-inflicted

car in the garage, strychnine shots.

Creativity is nine tenths of black magic.

And unexpected heart-attacks are so passé.

Besides, natural causes racks up plenty of those.

And I wouldn’t want to mess around with that magic.

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