sonnet series, section hw

Thirteen masochistic men all beating
Drum-kits-- and seven savior figures said,
"Villians come! and life is dark and fleeting"
But still they sound, and they'll be found not fled.
And I'll be there, unlucky as the rest.
They'll find me, bind me, lead me to the cliff
And chide my lemming weakness.  Then the test
Will come, and guards and kids will find me stiff.
There is some quality of life our choice
Affords-- we're playing to our death, a voice
Of reason whispers-- what is left to gain?
The lasting gift of life is only pain!
Respite in a final blow? Then, steel door,
Lock and chain, padded ceiling, walls and floor.
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"Pessimistic!" Alan spouts.  "The speaker is mentally unsound; he's left no room for hope in his thought, and that's why I think the poem is so boring!  Where's the suspense?  Where are we, the readers, supposed to go, when this enjambment using, life-hating, feeble minded rhymer has shoved the ending onto us?"
The section leader, after sighing, asks Alan,  "What is the story of the sonnet for you, Alan?"
"Easy," Alan says. I sit there biting my lip-- he'll probably get it right and convince us all to hate it-- "These thirteen-- oh what a well hidden symbol, i-might-add-NOT!-- idiots are banging these drums, perhaps a metaphor for something, hmm?"
Alan peers around at my writing group. His self-satisfied 'I'm so good at this, you all should puke' look makes my eye twitch. I decide to shut it.
"Perhaps a metaphor for living under the dictates of a poor life-style? And so, they bang things, people, whatever, the imagery is so (his favorite word) feebleminded-- and they're going to get themselves killed.
The seven, again, easy symbolic number-- oh and then let me spell it out for you all, the speaker seems to say savior figures-- these unhelpful prats sit about crying that the bad people are going to get the idiots-- and these so called 'bad people' are really, probably the police, or a healthy society. And then, the speaker says he'll be forced to choose: pay for his crimes, or submit to death by not repenting them! and the idiot knows he'll jump off the cliff, if he has to, but he got himself caught in the first place!
And why? That's so easy, in the last three heroic couplets-- ironic,  I think, NOT-- the speaker asks a couple rhetorical questions, showing that life is painful, but he likes it, and death is no better, so if he stays alive, he'll eventually die to the world anyway, and will be as good as dead.  See, no hope, no salvation without worthless submission! "
I think he's done, but he never really finish--
"Oh! and the last image is indicative of the feeblemindedness behind the creation of this sonnet . . . "  He reads with purposeful sing-songy effects, which make any sonnet sound stupid, "RES-pite IN a FInal BLOW?? then STEEL DOOR (terrible spondee use!)
LOCK and CHAIN, PADDed CEILing, WALLS and FLOOR-- I think there might be some hints toward insanity?"
He sits down.  It is over.  I remove my hands from my red face and look in his direction.  Something that fascinates me about Alan and every other person like him is that he never looks at the person he is abusing.
The section leader sighs again.  "Well, anyone else?"
No one else.  The section is small, and the only other people besides me and Alan are a guy who never seems to sleep enough before our early class and so sleeps through it every day, and a girl who makes me look like the world's most celebrated, extroverted, popular man about town.  I'm shy, and she never speaks, except to read what she writes.
Alan never picks on her.  He must like her.  He must be  showing off.
The Sleeper never brings anything in to be read.
It's just me and Alan.
"You have something for us-- sigh-- today, Alan?"  the section leader asks.
"Well, yes, I do."  He stands, "It's a haiku."
A haiku! For a second, I'm the fiercest victim who ever got a chance to reciprocate his pain upon his attacker.  But I look at Shy girl.  And another second passes.  I think I'll talk to her outside of class today, or try.
Alan begins, as always, with a pamphlet of detailed disclaimers.  Bet-hedging. Making apologies before he starts.  It gets boring, so the section leader stops him.
"All right, then,
As the paint does not
Dry in one afternoon, so
Is blood wet all day."
"Mmm," our section leader says.  "Idunno, anyone?"
I raise my hand.  Alan still doesn't look at me, but his jaw is set, ready to start the rebuttals that will certainly be needed after my return onslaught upon his poem.
"It's the right number of syllables, isn't it?" I ask.
"Yes! Of course." Alan says.
"Then, good job." I say.
"That's all the time for today, you guys, see you next week."  The section leader yawns away.
Outside the classroom, I have to run to catch Ms. Shy. I walk next to her for a while, then turn and tell her my name, which she knows, and she says "Siri."

"Siri, hunh," I say.  I tell you, I'm shy.
We walk in silence, past a bus stop, across the street.  She asks me, "What were you trying to do, when you talked about Alan's haiku?"
"I have no idea," I say.
She smiles.  I like that.
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