My Pseudo Dead Haikus

Up one night thinking.
Awake remembering pain.
Thoughts of the insane.

Haiku : the efficient, eloquent way of being pretentious. The concept of efficiency, perfected by the Japanese. 17 syllables, no need to rhyme.

It's no wonder they can do everything better in the manufacturing fields than Americans. This gives them more time to count their money and beef up their math skills.

haiku is to efficient as soliloquies is to boring.

At least, that's a perception I have. Come on. How many of you could get into any Shakespearean works beyond Romeo and Juliet? You know that play with that "lovely love me" shite.

So I wanted to get the troubling thoughts about the junky who led me to financial ruin, and I wanted to be as efficient as possible to catch up on sleep.

These haikus had the opposite effect. You know that Jedi shit.

Anger leads to hate, hate leads suffering. Yoda like a motherfucker.

I also got stuck on a dilemma I've been battling for a while. How does haiku translate from Japanese to English?

Here's an egrish sample base on my haiku from the beginning.

Okite ichi yoru kangarue. 10 syllables.
Up one night thinking. 5 syllables.

Yes, I own a Japanese to English dictionary. No, I'm not going to translate the entire poem. This blog is about efficiency, and that would take up a too much time.

I guess it may not be about the sounds. It may be about the kanji, the oriental characters. We do seem to mock their love for pretty pictures on a frequent basis.

The point of this long winded rant (again, I'm inefficient) is that it led me to write haikus that really sum up the constant gloom I radiate through out Central Illinois.

Chicago and the Quad Cities should be glad I'm taking time off from wrestling. It makes it tougher to keep this grumpy bear routine up everywhere. God/Science bless the Internet.
So here we go, what you've been waiting for: MY PSUEDODEAD HAIKUS!!!

I am a zombie,
But I feel my memories.
Damn this fucking pulse.

I am walking dead.
Empty, but I still flashback.
And no taste for brains.

Shotgun to my brain.
This pseudo corpse curses Cobain.
Stuck here with my pain.

I have loved and lost.
Gone through all my wants of life.
Left only with needs.

Hungry for something.
Left to wander endlessly.
Not to think, just feed.

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