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THE MINOTAUR SCHOOL
We blame the parents for these ash-pale mongrels
hurtling their bones from room to empty room.
 
Not their fault they’re a bag of hide and bollock,
whale-bulb head and cankered knee, buckling
as they belt towards another dark dead-end.
Their cueball eyes, their soft bland brains;
each one alone in his own panic
smelling for a golden thread
suckling anything that might be mother.
 
It’s all you can expect.
At night we hear them bellowing their terror
through the long blank corridors.