My life thro a paper shreader

My life through a paper-shreader



I'm going throuh a paper shreader...
long strips of my life
like a reel of film....
Passing out like a bunch of box pleats of a skirt,
scrunched up too tight at the top,
flapping out at the bottom.
Graduating through with honours,
shaking their bodies in a Hawaian dance.
Some of them were supposed to be my
study notes.
For something or the other..
too bad I'm out of notepaper for this.
A study of my life through a shreader.
Going to present a paper
on the whining sound and
the dustbin it all falls into
scratch, scratch, graze graze.
like my teachers nails on the black-board.
She thinks of doing that every time she sees me..
make that noise.
Better then when I'm around.
Walking into the class-room
every morning,
the flat of my sneaker against the flooring
and the sand paper pupils of peeps on
my posture.
A continuose connection
of judgment, a test, an inconfidence
or no-confidence in any sort of limit of repulsion.
Mellow notes of the flute,
My heart an African drum,
a tom-tom, hipnotizing,
sleep-inducing rhythm of everyday life
Tear out chunks of my skin if you can.
Habituated to the insult of my clothes against my skin.
like a punishment for some past sins.
I seem to forget them,
"oh how convinient,"
Like every breath on my lips
and my hair moving to my continuous touch.
African elephants through my brain and on my skin
like ants that crawl and bite off.
Bits of my sanity.
The window attracts me,
I move away from the shreader.
I just finished this reel.