Mezun wrote this while searching for images related to haiku in the Google Images prefecture. He addressed this to some o’ the poems by young westerners he ran into, who subscribed to the orokaburushitu school o’ haiku that uses minimal imagery & subtlety & usually involves meta commentary ’bout how the writer is just writing 17 syllables without thinking.
Just 17 whole
syllables makes a
shitty-ass haiku.
bee sting heat
leaching all water
ice bucket bent o’er
spilling why bothers
When I’m depressed,
I think o’ birds nests.
That’s not e’en a metaphor.
When life gives you limes,
squeeze them into fun shapes.
Don’t look undercover for the meaning, my friend:
look, I’ll give it to you right here.
Beach-scuttling crabs —
nothing wrong with that.
It ne’er scrutinized you;
look, but leave it ’lone.
When I’m distressed,
I think o’ worms in chalky dirt.
Not everything great rhymes with “vest”.
When the earth gives you worms,
pet them,
’cause worms are actually quite friendly.
cola polar bears
& blue cheese dressing;
Chef Webster’s best summer leaves
get my blessing.
The sun’s cured your cold —
here now, have some sniffles;
& the hand’s already havocked
by lukewarm morning bristles.
¡But that was the good part!
You didn’t e’en finish your chicken.
¿You didn’t like your chicken?
Can’t e’en eat chicken right,
so the stale blinding silence eats you.
Only the cat can forgive your sins.
Only it has the calm to forget.
You boarded your doors gainst the blizzard for years;
but in the summer thaw the clear cubes melt to tears.
The Joe Man is back.
Night breakfast —
marshmellow stars meet,
then bob ’way.
<That last decade was nothing —
you are nothing,
& I don’t want you in my park anymo’>.
But…
<¡Butt!>
& I don’t e’en mind this time—
stuffy hair-ridden jacket
with itchy zippers,
sticky bottom lip stuck with slivers.
Time races
with feet glued to gooey tarmack,
trapped for dour hours in shiny hot cracks.
¿Why keep the pinecones
you don’t e’en play with no mo’?
¿& why dream o’ snowcones in the sun?
When the icy moon melts every revolution.
Dusty pages make me wheeze,
red eyes in white heat
in hellish darkness swarm
maggot-colored fireflies.
Through the round looking glass stained
with wasp guts
becons light
leading down the well
to a heaven
scientifically proven by Dr. Healey
to be hotter than hell.
You’re just losing focus ’gain.
¿Why can’t you bloom on ruby gin
like the rest o’ them,
like the best o’ them?
¿When’d I e’er have the crystal?
It’s clear.
It’s clear.
puts down_glass
puts_down glass
puts_down_glass
I feel the cobwebs on my face
as if the past few threads had been erased.
Wipe the wine right off your face
& spit the stale grapes from your taste
& find a better palette with which to paint.
…
Maybe ’nother day…
This mer soleil is great, though;
sitting back as the waves foam,
tittering as your white blanket
takes me to sunnier pines.
& I haven’t been minding this entire time.
While the sun still burns my flesh,
say, “This doesn’t compute”.
Done.
(
define
( on-and-on text )
(
define
been-done
( string " has been done already" )
)
(
string-append
text
( on-and-on been-done )
)
)
(
display
(
on-and-on
( string "This" )
)
)
The only
itchiness I like
is orange juice.
I love naught.
Tie the knot.
In gray matters,
the last stem has already been severed.
Too weak to pull the weakest levers.
What a pusho’er;
now it’s o’er.
