This poem is not academic,
It's not like anything you have tried to teach me,
About critical writing,
And deep reading,
And lecture notes,
And good-for-my-career "activist" preaching.
This poem is for you,
This great institution,
That put me in a box,
Showed me that I could be anything,
But also told me exactly who I should be.
That said that my issues are being resolved,
That my critisism is constructive,
That there are more desks in the library,
That the old days when accommodation was cheap should not concern me.
It's like you hold nothing sacred,
Except for the radical history that you push down every prospective student's throat,
Wrapped up in a fresher's week goody bag:
A pen, notebook, activism of days long gone, a bottle opener,
It's all a trap!
A trap to forget that I can want more,
More than the crowded, expensive bus,
More than the absolutely shit falafel sandwich meal deal,
More than having to spend Christmas in a psychological crisis over four essays due January 8th.
So how is it then,
That by shutting me up you taught me how to scream?
To break walls and have hope and expect more than all this.
You spoke to me in a slithering voice through emails,
Saying you are responsible for me,
Hating the fact that you need to pretend that you care about me.
So let me ask you then,
And be the great inconvenience that I am,
What do you feel like,
When we have sex in the library toilets,
Or sit outside management buildings in freezing weather,
Or take others' unfinished food from Falmer bar tables,
Oh this must make you a bit uncomfortable!
But I will tell you what you should feel,
You should fucking feel alive,
Because we made this,
We made you,
We are you.