The Mezunian

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

ERA LA MORSA LO PERMITO MOSTRAR QUE NO ESTOY ESCONDIÉNDOME SIEMPRE VEN ABAJO EN TODO Y MIRAME QUEMARME

They don’t like the taste o’ my tear-soaked beef,

WHAAAR WHAAAR WHAAAR.

They only want chips that crunch with shiny teeth,

WHONK WHONK WHONK.

I’m sick o’ that hideous beast.

That dick’s like last week.

It’s time to clean

that which collects fleas.

¡Texting it in!

¡Texting it in!

That’s what you get when you spend all your attention on fresh lint.

I’m sorry—

you deserved better,

trash bag leaves.

“¿What d’you think he’s thinking?”

“He’s definitely implying something.”

“¿You sure?”

“Def. ¿Can’t you totally see it?”

“I always sucked @ language arts.”

I’m sorry—

your dessert’s butter.

Trash bag leaves.

“I’m boooored.”

“You’re only whining ’cause you’re losing. You’re always a sore loser.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play anymo’. You can’t stop me.”

“I’m telling.”

“¡Shut up, tattletale!”

“I will.”

“I don’t care. I told you, I don’t want to play anymo’, & you can’t stop me.”

That was the last they heard before the officer found his body hanging in Aokigahara.

¿Want me to talk ’bout the moon ‘gain?

You always savored that gin.

BOOOOOOOOOO.

[A can flies & punches me in the nose.]

They peeled off my latex glove face—¡gross!

When you leave a mess,

you should always scrub.

What what.

I’m sorry—

«you deserve nothing,»

all believe.

So the walrus wails its songs e’ermo’.

He can shove a rancid cactus up his assing fuckhole.

Posted in Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Poetry