Kaboom

You’ve squandered

your very best,

on that which fails to give

you lauds & laurels:

the one-liner

which you muttered

in the mausoleum hush,

amid the downcast

veils & incense,

the time you propelled

a stone along the water,

skipping 30 times—halfway

across the lake

while no one watched;

too busy with their selfies

and panache;

your I love you

that you voiced

into the mirror,

before you botched it

in the hour

that she came;

and as the bard who

saved your greatest

for the job that paid you

squat—McWillie’s Ads & Hoopla—

the day that you were fired:

There’s nothing like a

juicy, in-house steak—

bloodless—our dye resembles

anything that’s spilled,

nothing to dampen

your smile or the

pleasure that it brings,

and you’ll forget it

screamed its head off

from a hook,

say abattoir is

the loveliest word

our language has

come up with—

masking shock & slaughter,

the squeals of misery,

packaged in its pieces

so they’ll say it’s beautiful.

Andreas Gripp

May 18, 2025

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