Coffee has stained the lecture table
And left its avatar on my tongue.
Sketches of another world tattoo the backs of chairs
Products of boredom, cast-offs of uninspired souls
Begging to be set alight
Or cast in flaming bronze.
If only the lecturer was a tyrant
Or my neighbour, my enemy;
As in the both longed-for and despised days of my youth
When midday was greeted with a lifted heart
And celebrated with an adrenaline rush:
A meal of sport, and hormones flowing as wine.
Where is my football; that fat old sun
That bothered my eyes and fuelled my spirit's trip?
Here there is only wood and plastic
An army of defiled tables keeping me in my cell,
Brave guardsmen spat upon by their captives,
But ensuring the would-be poet
Has only Wetherspoons in his mind's eye as his reward.
Denying Heaven, we long for Hell
But tapping pens and Starbucks cups belong to neither
And scarcely allow for imagination.