The watermelon, being stuffed
in a plastic bag held by an unwelcome
hand, came into my house. As if the hand
itself was not interested in what did come
with the bag, it didn’t even move
a finger when the house owner uttered
the empty words; “you didn’t have
to bring this.” The bag held
by the new owner was put in one
corner of the kitchen. No one,
neither the hand that brought the watermelon,
nor the hand that received the watermelon
cared if its taste was awesome or
awful. Perhaps they didn’t even care
if it was a real watermelon or not.
Although the melon, a mere whatnot,
survived being pushed in and out
of all the corners in the house, It never
was out of the bag. One day, the worn-out
bag was seen accidentally by the owner
and was thrown into the trash bin
with still breathing watermelon in it.
The thought that it might have been
the severest and delicious tidbit
In the world never occurred
to anybody in the house.
The watermelon never existed
from this world’s nascence.
A happy-looking man who
keeps throwing stones to
a murky horizon far far away
buried in a deep deep fog.
The happier-looking man who
Is gazing at the dim fluttering of
a seagull-like bird in a thick thick mist.
As if worshipping the horizon,
as if waiting for the fog to be lifted,
a happy rock with a look of
throwing stones into the sea water.
A very very old rock.
He was a real genius, she said.
Do we need a genius, for that kind of thing?
Alas! Because of all the fuss she made,
I couldn’t say that I was a genius too.
How fortunate I am!
I could just be a wine bottle for that genius,
it would be better if I could be a chair the beauty sit on
and it couldn’t be better if I were a bed
the genius and the beauty make love on
Don’t praise for my modesty.
How come he can be a genius without drinking wine?
How could beauty’s butt touch the floor?
A good bed is a must for a passionate sex.
This kind of cute ambition should be allowed, shouldn’t it?
I am just a prop
that takes whatever happen to me
and keep my place
While just watching admired genius and beloved beauty.
A prop that won’t reveal its ambition,
just like a forest that wraps the village,
just like a mountain that sustains the forest.
If ‘prop’ sounds too small,
How about calling it a stage background?
Nah, calling it just the stage?
How could a genius and a beauty exist
without a stage where they play on?
Just like the Earth on which humankind is living,
just like the Space in which the Earth is breathing,
the prop that has accomplished its long-cherished goal.
not necessarily supposed to
not necessarily reach orgasm
by being conquered.
Mountains feel just
content with uncontrollable exclamations from me
looking up from their feet.
Mountains often reach
orgasm by looking down on me with
I won’t try to
climb the unreachable summit.
I can hit my orgasm through
not being discouraged and
enduring contempt and insult from the mountains.
I can’t go to Mars
to test my luck for survival.
so I create Mars on this Earth
by sucking up all the oxygen,
by drying up all the water,
by throw myself far away from the Sun,
and by living in thick ugly mask.
After 15 years, I am still alive on Mars
without doing anything to survive;
by depending on pure luck.
No wonder that none-existent humans
call me Martian.
What a monumental non-effort!
Why don’t you take off your stuffy
space suit? Who knows? You
might find out you are human
by not dying and your fortune
can live without your vizard.
But I like Mars’ barren soils –
Its desolate deserts –
Its naked mountains –
Its muffled silence-
Its utter emptiness.
Well, you may need a different skin
on your face.
I ate the chocolate she gave me just like a frog snatching a dung fly,
which created a small hell in my stomach.
Perhaps it was a no-name cheap chocolate.
In fact, would she have given you a Godiva?
Just like you shouldn’t pick up and eat a chocolate lying on the street,
you get into trouble if you jump at things a woman gives you.
Thanks to that stomach discomfort, chocolate grabbed my attention.
I’ve found out that Godiva is not No. 1 in the world!
Ah! There will a time that I give a Teuscher as a birthday present
to a beautiful woman who loves brand-name chocolate, sweet things like me.
But I won’t give a cheap chocolate that causes stomach trouble
to a woman I hate, even though she is a sheer bitch.
However, if the thought that even cheap chocolate should be given is sad,
my mindset of no-giving-no-taking would be happy?
Because of stomachache from a cheap chocolate,
This excreta has been created.
Believe it or not, sometimes dog poop is used as medicine,
so cheap useless stuff would be worthwhile.
But, I wonder what this excretion can be used for…
A grass-blade standing alone by the roadside,
The dream of a lonely-looking blade
Is by becoming a vast meadow
and by feeding a flock of sheep bellyful
to have it name fly high to the sky.
A dream; the bigger, the better,
but the wayside dream is just a dream,
A dream dreamt alone is just a dream.
A small advice to the grass-blade
from a drifter looking just like the grass
who is walking alone
with a humungous backpack on the back.