Les Royalistes

This website I’ve

discovered is

vastly sophisticated.

It’s not imploring 

me to accept

intrusive cookies—rather,

crème brûlée—

its outward, sugared

sheen, in touch with

its inner pudding.

Oatmeal chocolate-

chip wanted to know my

every going; who I’m

voting for; whether I’ve

an innie or an outie.

The crème brûlée 

inquires if I’ve ever

studied Chaucer;

my favourite Athenaeum;

what I think of multiverse.

Cookies are

moiety at best;

a crumbling,

half-baked Mob, threatening

to restrict—unless I

acquiesce.

It’s the kid whose fist

is clenched, demanding

your every quarter, snags

your Oreos, licks their

pearly icing—with a sneer

will hand them back.

Crème brûlée? It

is philanthropic;

offers seconds with

a smile; bathes your

wanting glossa

in ecstasy.

And I’ll give it

my very soul—without

a blink of hesitation,

capitulate every thought

I’ve ever had regarding

sex: call it reproduction,

the knowledge of

physical love,

wondering if it’s time

I reappraise

the monarchy—

its carpet of Bordeaux,

like a tongue in flushed

surrender;

its crown of golden

brown, crisp yet supple

to the touch.

©Andreas Gripp

RF Photo