The Mezunian

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

PERMITE QUE EL SOL NO TE CIEGUE LOS OJOS PERMITEME DORMIR PARA QUE NO RECHINEN LOS DIENTES

I’m wrong.

All wrong.

--& I’ve been wrong since the beginning o’ the bomb.

«¡Ack! ¡You’re wrong!

¡Stop being so perverse & admit that everyone’s a lemon wedge on the edge o’ tea!»

But they’re wrong,

& that’s what makes them right,

for the wrongest wrong one can wreak is being right.

Look @ these black leaves strewn ‘cross

pavements oiled in acid rain,

oozing cheap mascaras cross

pimpled skid-mark-darkened f--

«¡Now stop! This imagery is too extreme;

O’ it we’re getting quite so sick. ¿Why don’t

You write ‘bout nice li’l things? Like angel cream

With golden smiles & smokeless, vacuumed ho--»

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

It’s too late to save my brain;

better the sweater is thrown ‘way

than sentenced to life in barnacles from the rain,

no matter how the mold bakes heat aches...

Now, ¿who wants heart aches?

¡Una trampa!

You won’t miss the dead leaves

when you’ve got white cream;

don’t rage @ the dying o’ the midnight,

¿all right?

But when I wished myselves goodlight,

muttering, «You’re right, you’re right...»,

sweaty-eyed, I realized

that they stabbed me with my own knife.

¡The supes in suits strike ‘gain!

¿Why?

¿Why?

¿Why?

Posted in Crazy, Poetry