THE ART OF FALLING FROM GRACE

The slow, empty cadence of the Tutor’s drone

matched the delicious rumble of my taut belly,

as a dozen pints of union lager slowly settled,

and the gentle thrum of a distant isle,

folded me exquisitely into the land of Nod.

A jolt! A pointed elbow in the ribs,

promoted an ignominious belch to expire,

my eyes opened and all eyes were upon me…

and the questioning leer from behind the tutor’s steel-rimmed glasses,

brought me sharply back into the room.

A sociological principle was beyond my call,

the owner of the elbow pointed at her notes,

desperate to stave off my patent ignorance:

I chanced upon a vacuous answer:

“Oh yes I whole-heartedly agree… sir!

He looked disappointed with me, bless, as I had failed,

to spot the salient point of Marxist dogma,

the point at which I could usually be relied upon,

To thrust forward my working-class treatise…

but my mind was elsewhere!

In the bleary blast of the union not half-hour since,

I’d been promised such earthly delights

that no sensible working -class hero could hold fast,

to dreams of social emancipation,

when the lure of sexual expansion glittered ahead.

Dale M.

Published by dale.beck1@hotmail.com

I am a writer of words and a righter of wrongs. I aim to change the world, one person at a time.

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