The Mezunian

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


Lay sorrow for the sorrows I thought I harbored but didn’t,


now listen to that same spinning disk

I’ve been frisking for days now.

How ich bin itching loud.

When I’m starving to leave,

I say chow,

I do.

« Cat, get your face off my hand

& sit in a marching band.

Bash those drums off my hand

¿& sit? ¿Is marching banned? »

When the clocks get dusty,

¿y’know what I get in my bag?

A li’l timerag.

When the rocks grow rusty,

¿y’know what I’ve got on my back?

It’s not just his 1-night sand;

it’s all hour jazz.

« I don’t want to be em,

I don’t want to be hot,

I don’t want to grow young,

I | want | to | go | emooooo.

¡So medicate! & get late. »

—Smashing Berenjenas, “So Hot”

Look what: you warped my tape;

this is why I

shook rough you wrapped in tape

in this twilight.

I wish I had jam

to go with this pop

lock rock tock glock.

—O, ¿why all the blues?

Too poor for my blood;

I need a horn that blows—.

The loudness

only e’er makes the quiet louder, too.

—Now come, I’ll trade your tears ‘fore my fear

¿How come? I’ll make your bears … my fear—.

The beer o’ cheer only makes it run out;

its taste in my mouth

is only it leaving my mouth.

—Your problem is you keep trying to make music that ne’er stops.

¿Why stop the schlock that stops?

So you don’t stop stopping

& ne’er get round to music that stops,

much less los otros;

you’re obsessed with Easy-E

& ne’er get round to the humans that stop,

much less los otros—.

« …we threw things cruel—

eliminated the crannies & twigs. »

— OVED, “The Metaphor, My Sis”

O, ¿who am I ribbing?

I can’t be on the rag,

no mind how I rag.

The nearest I ran

was mooching a mini moocher.

I need to come back to the future;

I need, too, comfort when through sure.

I’m not sure these words are worth.

« When the talk’s all musty,

¿y’know what I packed in my keg?

A li’l timerag.

When the chalk falls fuzzy,

¿y’know that I made it in my sack?

It’s not just her, 4-morn sea:

it’s him, phony. »


Already it’s getting laid

& the ligh-ligh-ligh… dim

& the 0s line up on the plenty for our lock

& I don’t remember why I scratched,

but I did.

Lay sorrows for the sorrows I thought I had but didn’t.

—Mike, check—.

I haven’t earned em.

—Mike, check—.

I don’t think I e’er will.

—Mike, check—.

¡We gret it, already!

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Posted in Poetry