Tonight's Poet Corner: The Proctor

The Proctor
by Belinda Roddie

Everyone please sit at your assigned
guillotines, eat your number two pencils
so you can taste graphite on your
tongues instead of adolescent despair,
and turn to page six of your test book.
There, you will read so many numbers
that they'll creep like parasites
up both nostrils and make you sneeze
out random equations and formulas
that all lead up to the same non-answer.

You have sixty-five minutes to read
your false gospels. You have thirty-five
minutes to spell out your own epitaph. You
have twenty-five minutes to understand
the world, but if you run out of time,
you're forced to move on. Another fifty
minutes? Inscription on your grave needs
revising. Use your fingernails to engrave
your last hurrah in particleboard.

I am here for you. Always.
But I can't answer questions
while the exam is in session.
Just keep your head down, ignore
Dalí's sneering complexion in
the melting clock, and pray that
your essay will be long enough to
properly sustain the Beast during his
afternoon feeding before you're all dismissed.

Follow the directions. They mean nothing.
Follow the directions. They mean nothing.
Follow the directions. They mean an endless
void of answers that evaluate all your flaws
and signify absolutely fucking nothing.