We all shared a fantasy
about college walls
under the scent of adolescent penis,
bleeding profusely in the color of red
forming the sickle-hammer flag.
Of a giant knowledge tree,
leaves were rolled in paper–I could hear the trees
screaming– burnt at the crushed, twisted edges
while our hearts flew into palpitations,,
each fag produced a ideational obeisance
of which we knew little.
Or a much more,
to rebel and destroy,
even the bell the rings regularly,
invariably, making me salivate,
but nevertheless, an absence of hierarchy.
And like school children
we would walk out of classes
or sulk in corners.
But what kept us together
was a silent yet intelligent voice
which kept screaming