The Mezunian

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

Sorrow Ugly (SOLO TIRA TU VIEJA VIDA Y SÉ CRIADO POR MURCIÉLAGOS)

Blue in red hell,

not where the roses rot,

but where the rotten roses sniff unsmelled.

The heart’s not warm, but caged in cold,

told the warmth-made water would only feed mold.

Cleanse the black rock o’ fuzzy green monsters.

¿Why e’en bother with those who don’t e’en bother?

¿Find these fish fit O so snugly

in the sunset-drenched canyons o’ Sorrow Ugly?

Show you on the newsprint where the ink smudges—

I just fudge it,

’cause this isn’t it the grudge pit?

With femurs & hamshells,

where the woods sip lakes from the moonlit elk.

That’s such a flimsy pelt.

That’s such a flismy fingernails.

Catch the yolks in all the rain pails.

Find me where the bent cardboard boxes hug me

in the charred forest corpse copse called Sorrow Ugly.

¡Night!

strikes so early;

but its early strikes are stricken so early,

trampling the trampled grass in a hurry.

¿Whither to wither unseen?

Come with me

to the moondown that is Sorrow Ugly.

Coming this fall

that fells us all.

Posted in Poetry