Fred the Floating Head

I’m learning that no one

fancies living in

colour anymore.

That’s what buddy

in his turtleneck

has to say. Its

black-on-black

backdrop—channelling

his inner noir.

It’s a latent

insurrection

to the orange

countertops, the humming

from an avocado

chill, popsicles the

spectrum of an arc,

either end the crock

of Irish gold.

St. Paddy’s will be grey

in lieu of green. Eggs of Easter

painted achromatic. And

the day of hearts & flowers?

Any shade of red

will be illicit, its hue that’s

blood not sex. We will finally

crush our trauma

with our pall.

We’ll drive off

in our Chevy

Silverados, muted in their dull

exterior. To our charcoal

condominiums in the sky.

Even the realtor 

only posts on cloudy

days. Everyone having

picnics by the river

while it rains, umbered

by the swell of human

muck.

Despite their wane

to white, umbrellas

will still be useless

in the wind. 50 million

brollies blown away,

chased by ashen kids,

dashing to their bleak

& drab horizons.

Andreas Gripp

December 5, 2025

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