The Mezunian

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

Waiting for Autumn to Stay ( DIE MITTE ) [ un endroit pour revenir à une journée, un endroit pour appeler la maison ]

Accompanying music

Riempio lo zaino con pigne e ghiande,

carico armadi con rami e rami, —

linfa così vischiosa, così dorata sotto il sole —

Raccolgo cumuli di erba in federe,

che mi solleticano il naso con fragranze dolci e fangose.

Waiting for Summer to End, J. J. W. Mezun

You no buy no pinecones

for this summer’s peanut butter gelato,

mamarracho —

demasiado ocupado para preocuparse.

I can furbish that ant farm tomorrow’s year:

the future’s plum full o’ summers


It e’en sums for autumn.

September pretends it ne’er happened,

hibernating forward to winter,


¿But what o’ the man

who whispered to you

through the rusty can?

He is still with you, ¿no?

O, O, O.

These days

o’ calm grays.

I forget ‘bout him a lot o’ lots,

now that I’ve learned

to live with spitted spots.

I love the rust now:

it’s mo’ secure

than the purest o’ clean Cs —

no matter how cheap

that ¡Clean++! detergent may be.

But that is a lie.

You’ve ne’er truly known the lust o’ real rust.

But it is the truth:

There is sooth

in the dark, cold night…

The time has cried

to stop relying on time.

It’s time to seize the grease

& saw off your own autumn

regardless o’ arbor regulations

in relation to the sol.

Solar cycles feed lightning cycles,

& I don’t need a pancycle

to ride my feet to sleepy dreams.

But sap is soothing supplements —

vitamin C straight from the trees.

Don’t let the drugs

o’ bark-bred hugs

choke the throat o’ all your life,

but stroll down a pill

once a morn

to get your recommended fill o’ pines.

Snnnnnnnn… ahhhhhhhhh…

¿Do you hear that scent?

That’s sawdust snuff —

potent stuff.

The cats are wrapping themselves in leaves

left all round the house in Patches,

pale green

under paler white

& o’er business gray

half-soft, half-rough

like petting gator skin.

The heavy breaths o’ wind

o’ finally feeling the fermentation o’ fruit,

o’ nature’s soft, sticky maple,

after such a dry summer,

& the dormant sugar buzz

after eating your own home-grown donuts,

now just the youthful stickiness on calloused hands.

But if I stay too long,

it’ll all be gone.

What a broken-down existence

eating syrup till sick,

till you can’t ooze out any mo’ juice…

Take just 1 drop in your mug this fall

& toast the repeating seasons.

Ça ne prend que du temps,

petite fille, vous êtes au milieu de un tour —

tout, tout ire bien;

tout, tout va bien se passer…

& all the limbs blown onto my lawn

( as well as the cheap rom hacks o’ Mario Kart ) —

they’re still there.

&, fuck you, they’re staying there.

¡Try & topple my tower, Bowser!

Posted in Poetry