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EXPULSION OF THE CRACK-BRAINED FLEA, by Andy Gallagher.
I was sent home today,
Not because I did anything wrong,
back to the shell of grey moths,
which looks like an elderly rail-carriage.
The ferric grille of death and bird-dung,
my one-legged cell-mate,
who stands over me as I eat,
about Cud'orth, cockney Steve and Joan,
And Charlie Williams.
Can't even remember what day it is.
Back to the rigid jar of Ovaltine,
my box of pens, my jug, and my stash of jams.
To the squalid little rhymes,
the adamant bed nailed to the ground,
The Sun-shuffling blogs,
attempting to shed some daylight,
on all this cheerless indignation.
Back to the skids on my bed sheets,
the black pin-heads on my pillow,
the caves in my mattress....
Back to my pad and my toothpaste,
The notice-board stuffed with unrepeatable slang.
To my home without a key,
bolted on the outside.
Because the teacher,
didn't want to be,
in the same room as me, alone,
Unseasonably sent forward.
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