The Mezunian

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


O, please, give me your sour & sweet poisoned,

juicy starburst dripping with the rich twist o’ cyanide-pill chalk,

heart-spiking sugar sharks,

thick aquariums o’ soft & safe booze

to fill my villi stomach with revolting microbes,

& causing my membrane to flap…

Year-end songs—
Flutters so much. Please rest,
bloody heart. kill ‘nother day,

till they’re all dumped ‘way in 1 freeing slam—

¡& those slams!

dig my teeth in that always-itching hand…

That’s what I need…

Wenn ich will zu überleben, muss der infektion sterben.

¡But it just laughs @ my flaccid face!—

bubbling ‘way safe in its cozy case

so smooth…

& I get to collect all the cracks so cooool.

…& how my ears spread spears straight into my eyes

from the cries o’ my nails you roughed up with your glass.

Aber wenn ich brauche…

wenn ich brauche…

ich brauche…

necesito escapar…

It’s not o’er.

It’s not o’er being o’er.

Not by a long throw.

C’est tout que je sais.

There will be glue,

& when there’s glue,

there’s paste,

& when there’s paste,

we’ll erase all the cracks,

& drink.

& I am so very thirsty, please.

Und das ist was ich brauche…

das ist was ich wirklich brauche…

[…e poi venne la statica…]



Well, OK…

I guess I’ll just have the Chocolate Coke, ‘stead.

Thank you.

Posted in Crazy, Deutsch, Española, Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Poetry


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--»





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!




Posted in Crazy, Poetry

Waiting for Summer to End

I fill my rucksack with pine cones & acorns,

stuff closets with branches & boughs—

sap so sticky, so golden under the sun—

collect stacks o’ grass in pillow cases—

tickling my nose with sweet dirt-filled fragrance.

They try to stop me.

They say I’m crazy.

What’s wrong with crazies?

What, are they Nazis?

‘Cause I know they’ll take it all ‘way someday—

the sky & the clouds & the rain,

the moon & the stars & the sun,

the blooms, the bushes, & the dirt,

the trees & their fall-fallen leaves,

the bees, their precious honey, & their wicked hives,

the wind & the rain & the snow,

my skin…

So I squeeze it ‘tween my shoulders,

huff it up my nostrils,

like one deserted in a desert, just coming into contact with water for the 1st time,

‘fore someone warned her that huffing water is bad for one’s nostrils.


You can’t have it back!

Just give me a few mo’ minutes with them!


You always say you’ll give them back later—

but I know you plan to destroy me ‘fore that comes.

You always plan to destroy me ‘fore summer comes ‘gain,

& I always barely miss destruction.

But I know this time won’t go so well.

This time’s different.

You’ve got me just where you want me.


I’ll miss you, sweetie.

(Kisses oak branch.)

Posted in Crazy, Poetry

I Thirst for Autumnal Rain

I thirst for autumnal rain that tastes o’ English Breakfast Tea.

There was none, so I returned to my sand castle under the sea.

I returned tomorrow,

but they only had summer sunshine that tasted o’ Sunny D,

which was all right in itself, I s’pose.

But I still wanted that rain.

& then they said they had summer rain,

& I told them to stop being zany.

—Summer rain.

What kind o’ bullshit is that?—

I told the guy,

I told him, —Hey, I know what discus you’re throwing.

You’re trying to hoard all o’ the autumnal rain ‘way from me.

You think I don’t deserve autumnal rain,

think I’m not good ‘nough.

You all despise me,

Think I’m dirt.


I understand.

You’re probably right.


So I went home to brood in my shady gray chamber o’er how best to drown my head in the sink

when I heard a tink.

I went outside & there I found

rain blurring into white smoke gainst the gray clouds.

I opened my mouth to drown myself in its icy ichor

when it occurred to me that it didn’t taste as sweet as I’d originally inferred.

I sneezed, freezing.

I went back inside to ‘scape the jacket-breaking breeze

(seriously, the wind just grabbed my jacket & ripped it ‘part like a gorilla.

What the fuck?)

& as I brooded in my briny mood, it occurred to me,

that I could use winter snow that tastes like chocolate-chip mint ice cream.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry

Blister in the Gum

I have a festering blister on the inside o' my mouth...
    That wasn't a metaphor.
        I truly do.
            & it hurts quite a lot, too.
                D'you know how to get rid o' it, please?
Posted in Crazy, Poetry


‘Twas lovely wandering summer evening parks.

‘Twas in Gelat’nousboulder1 where I saw

trash all scattered ‘long the vomit lawn, accomp’nied by

globs o’ doggie shit & feel-good posters taped on tree

boughs. ¡How nice o’ nature, serving such important needs!

Surely tacky clip-art betters boring orchids. ¡Phhh!

Luckily I saw the man whose dog improved the park

with its priceless art. Enraptured, I went up to him,

carrying the excrement in question, & I said,

I said to him,

—Hey, buddy, I know both your game & your frame--

& I don’t think either tastes too tangy.

¿Qué es tu puto cuño,

San Buzo?—

& he’s all like,

—¿You like it? I just whipped them up this morning in FrontPage. I think the kitten in the box saying, «Cat in winter box. Pondering meaning of life. ¿What’s it all mean, cat?» is the funniest part—.

I jammed them down the man’s esophagus;

& that’s why I’m in jail for 60 months.


  • [1] Slogan: “Supports iambicish pentameter.”
Posted in Antiromantic Sonnet, Crazy, Española, Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Poetry

Where You Can’t Get Me

Ha, ha, ha!

I’ve gotten you funky fuckers yet!

I found the loophole.

& you can’t stop me.

I’ve found the 1 place I’m safe,

where you can’t find me–

your kryptonite cavern.

I may not be able to do anything wrong without being punished;

I may not be able to say anything wrong without being punished;

But I can think whatever wrong I want without fear o’ punishment.

That’s right–

try & stop me from thinking my vile thoughts ’bout you.

You can’t.

You don’t even know I’m thinking ’bout you.

You don’t know anything I’m thinking.

I bet that truly drenches your trousers in horror.


Posted in Crazy, Poetry

Failed to Pass My Introspection


I saw what you’re trying to do--

& I can tell you right now,

it won’t work.

You’re trying to sneak into a li’l niche through you infirmities,


You thought you could ‘scape.

You were wrong.

We found you out like a trout,

flopping flippantly like febrile phalluses,

spraying your jizz all o’er my exquisite slacks.

That’s gross.

You have no class.

Wipe that mucus from your chin,

wipe that droll from your nose,

pee on the carpet, please:

it needs cleaning.

Just look @ your face.


¿How’d you do that?

Those who can see their own faces

can only do so through craned eyes.

You’re crazy, man.

Stay ‘way from me, man.

But your door’s locked.

I know you’re doors locked ‘cause you’re still such a substantial dumbshit to fucking find it.

So now I’m stuck with you,

caught in curfew,

when profusely I could be drinking in the smoky air,

sitting on squeaky benches--all o’ them @ once--under maple elms or swimming in seas o’ lucre green--

figuratively, ‘cause it’d truly be in a bank, obviously--

driving, climbing, computing,

eating o’ the arts—culinary or not--all for which I pined,

fed my conscience by catering sentiments o’ my own...

But no--

¡too rich for your veins!

¡Party in the checkered sheets o’ shame!

Waiting. ¿For what?

You’ve filtered the falsities in every nutritious solution;

you know what must be done.

There’s no talking to you.

What kind o’ crazy must I be to be talking to--

¡O Jesus!

¡It’s in me, too!

& therefore it’d be crazy for it to be in you,

which means it’d be crazy for it to be in me, too.

¿What’s wrong with you?

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


You probably think this is some kind o’ joke,

some kind o’ game.

I bet you think it’s a true dickslapper,

you cock-nosed pile o’ cu--


No, it’s worse!

You think this isn’t funny!

You’re sitting there bored,

saying to yourself,

“Yeah, yeah:

you’re a freak;

I got it, bro.”

Well, let me tell you something,

you whippersnapper:

Straighten that back.

Tighten that tie.

Put that hand back into your pants.

You... heh. You thought I wouldn’t see you, didn’t you?

Well, I did.

I see everything.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


Suddenly, finally, I woke from that long, fevered dream, only to find myself in an empty, dark void.


Posted in Crazy, Poetry