The Mezunian

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

Though This Be Method, Yet There Is Madness In’t


A soufflé carefully cooked,

hour by hour...


Oven door’s open 1 second suddenly.

It’s dead.

I can hear the bomb ticking in my brain...

I can feel the knife scraping my neck & forehead;

constricting, suffocation,

moldy blue skin.

A tepid leaf floating flimsily on the edge o’ a bough

till the hands reach out &--


I saw it.

You didn’t saw it.

They didn’t even saw it.

No! No, no, wait...

Hands don’t reach out...

The feet!

Those poor giants stumble forward on their feet & step on the leaves,

crumbling them to dust

too fine to see.

O, but the withered dust is so sexy.

We should thank our giants for this masterpiece.

The realm must be improved:

all sores must be cured,

all stains wiped with clean rags & disinfectant,

all trash must be taken & recycled.

That which has no purpose must be repurposed:

hearts & minds lying round should be cooked into a delightful stew,

skin must be peeled...

The ethical hunter must use all parts o’ the animal’s body so that nothing goes to waste...

as it went to waste ‘fore the hunting.


There’s no time for gasps & cries.

Just stop your rude interruptions o’ the rolling dice.

I never interrupted you during your turn.

You didn’t get a turn.

You didn’t need 1.

You’re already dead.


I know I’ll be next.

We’ll all be next ‘ventually.

& that’s OK.

Everything’s safe here.

‘Cause when you’re guaranteed death,

nothing can be dangerous anymo’.

Death is the safest place to be.

Like a warm pillow caressing the back o’ your head...


That is till it STRIKES!

Posted in Crazy, Poetry