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

is philanthropic;

will offer seconds 

with a smile, bathe 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

October 10, 2025

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