The Mezunian

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

¡O-AHH-AHH-AHH-AHH! (SI QUIERO MORIR LA INFECCIÓN DEBE SOBREVIVIR)

You clocked you could get waves from me,

but the pan came back,

the pan came back with 2 pounds a back

& there’s no going crack.

& then John Jacob Whistlemeyer, having gotten done with his cracked reveries in his sour soup tin while ponderplating Cheerios, Good Day, Sir, wiped his nose & began building a magnificent dinghie—that’s the way he spelled it; it’s Germish without the Germs.

¡What a magnificent dinghie it’s developing to become!

!I can just smell the salt hair brushing through my wind @ the seaset sun white shimmies!

¡Not anymo’!

We need to put germs in that.

1 Sneeze

& I was the who who killed you grand ma ma,

I was the what what jobbed your shove & took it.

I sneaked your Finlandia into Octoberfest Sam Adams

so you couldn’t code the crack as punchly as youth do in your you’d,

& left the Octoberfest ‘hind.

¿Why?

¡But luck!

You superbugs adjust to disinfected medicine,

& always find a new nasty cafeteria to sponge.

There is no such thing as no such free lunch.

‘Twas nice o’ these sneezes to bring me back to my dreams o’ drowning death,

but it’s time to wake & drown in peptodismal pink health,

with no help for to unlistened yelps.

Hopefully

the weather

will treat me better.

Hopefully

we’ll weather

sweet bleak September.

But as the tempests tempt my temples

with their timbering-shivers warm scattered rain “Jib Jib,”

I grasp your collar & hollar,

“¡I won’t land! ¡This is the land’s end!”

E’en if I can see the ice cream looming in the horizon.

& if I ne’er got round to growing that weedseas,

¿was the wasabi I weaned worth it, OK?

It tastes,

& the killer sound waves blow through my skeleton

in ways my skeleton has ne’er felt in months.

¡But lunch!

I’ve had too much

warm medicine,

which is why I’ve been reticent to be hesitant.

Though I don’t feel butter when I feel butter,

I hope I feel butter before I bring home the bread,

as bread’s hardest to catch when I’m not wrecked.

That’s my theory o’ labor—the value theory,

which makes a grape subjective theory, too;

just mix it with booze & the honeyed flu,

as the good doctor, Keens, proscribes with laughter.

That’s why he’s the theory general, all after.

But no one gave me a knife.

It’s peanut-butter-jammed in the toaster.

& if my Lucky®’s expired,

I’m untoasted.

Posted in Poetry, What the Fuck Is this Shit?