The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Ode to Trash Can

I can’t even count how many objects you so hawk

From your gaping maw with stains of nameless substances.

How your papers darken with forgotten liquids; bruised

Apple cores turn brown & yellow, swarmed with plump li’l flies.

Still I smell that odor sharp like needles splashed in piss;

Still I feel the stickiness that never shall subside,

Like the ghost of cream that streams out from a phallus cocked.

I desire to roll in you all day, pristine refuse,

For it is in you I know I truly should reside.

Posted in Antiromantic Sonnet, Metered, Poetry