Lush

I caught you toasting

to a bygone epoch. Of carriages,

titles, truffles. The manner in which we

merrily bowed to betters.

You’d bestow your very

soul to the Prince of Darkness

for a woman in lace.

There in the breath of green.

Blossoms on her bonnet—

we’re at our loveliest

when we’ve passed. Take a

goggle through the forest.

Google what is dense.

Nature’s a mortician, too.

You scream at the QR

code. It’s nothing like Rossetti!

Even grandmas are tattooed. Ink

should be strictly for quills.

Your every word would soar

if you’d only been born back when.

Is it possible to unfriend

yourself? Ratio of likes to loves—

never in your favour.

Every critique is meh.

This is living is it not?

Your constant haha use—

a bitter, unseemly emoji—

toothless in its revel. You’ve nothing

to cackle about.

Put your shillings

in your fillings—hobble to an archaic

apothecary. There on the cobblestones.

Summon Dr. Swithin.

Brandy & a biting stick.

You’d do anything for a drink—

anything.

But please. Don’t remove your trousers.

It’s not that kind of poem.

Andreas Gripp

October 24, 2026

painting: English School / unknown