Stream-of-Consciousness

And why should I have stayed cooped up
in this black hole all term, imprisoned
with those dead-beat no-hope losers
just because my dim old man has this idea
his son must go to Oxford? Living traumas
like this place could stunt a fellow's growth,
the way these inmates talk could shrivel brains,
their smells stop balls from growing. Fair enough
for him, gin-swigging nightmare of a Tory. Makes
me sick. Bye-bye you sleeping babes in arms,
sweet dreams of mummies by your side! I'll
leave you to your home-grown seminars
on masturbation and the like, your pitiful
attempts at adult talk without the adult thought
to bolster it - yeah never thought of that one,
did you? Confound this bloody masonry! Crumbles
soon as ever it gets touched. You'd think
the fees they charge would run to some repairs!
Nearly lost it there. Nearly lost me bloody grip. Maybe
I've lost it - in both senses of the phrase. Don't say
I've left it late. Too late. I should have done this yonks
ago. Just wait until the old man hears I've gone -
and when he hears I've joined the squat - he'll have
himself a fit, and serve him right. The likes of him
are all too keen to sacrifice their kids for their
own personal kudos. Shit! And what was that?
Another near one. Grip slipped again. A fox, no less!
One of the urban foxes, eh? True then, the myth:
they do, they live on roofs. Maybe I should
have followed it... maybe it knows an easier
way down than this. I bet it does... well, easier for it,
but then he's free. No drum kit hanging like a millstone
round his neck. Ah, better, now the moon's
poked through the clouds, and I can see the precipice!
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written in response to Victoria's prompt at http://dversepoets.com/