A tickle in your throat
precedes a cough.
The microbes in your
mist, buoyed
like the beat
from a brazen
hummingbird—
its wings about
the nectar, much too fast
to spot. Your germs
latch on to others, who
pass through their
translucence.
What’s aphonic
is the proverbial
pachyderm. The
floor has collapsed
from its presence,
while no one said
a word. The Halls
are left intact. Their minty
mentholyptus—pastilles of
broken vows. Even Ricola’s
more effective
when you’re at
the symphony,
the curse of front-row-
centre. You should have
downed the Buckley’s
while you could. Like
brandy and a biting
stick. The surgeons
always knew
what they were doing.
Watch the conductor
stress the alphorn
not the flautist. The
man from Bern
whose hotfoot is
ablaze. He flew to
Mogadishu
just to walk upon
the coals.
Said he’s never even
sniffled after that.
You’ve spiked my
gin with lemon. Said
citrus is the reason
for your smile. Even
Kool-Aid packs a
punch—its overkill
of C, that no one
suffers from scurvy
anymore. And lo, peg-
leg’s rum is laced
with natural orange.
Careful, be. You know
what they say
about too much
of a pretty good thing.
Take the Taoists
at their word. Balance
goes beyond
the yin and yang.
And we’ve never
heard them clear
their scratchy throats.
That’s why
there’s always one
of them on bassoon. Look again.
A tickle in your throat
precedes a cough.
And there are days
in which it’s better
not to know.
Who still says that
ignorance is idyllic?
I bet their sneeze is
muted
by the rumble of Ravel.
Bolero's over-
rated anyhow.
There is nothing
left to say
that doesn’t baffle.
My N95’s
in the cupboard,
beneath the sticky
Billy Bee. Silence
has never been
so golden-sweet.
Andreas Gripp
January 7, 2025
RF Image
Comments