Nocturne

They say

when you cannot dream

the madness will surely come.

As if the pelican in your sleep

is perfectly sane. The duffel in its jaw

a trove of onions. Their skins will

forge your poems. Metaphors

are translucent.

The robber at the bank

stole everything but the cash.

Held it up

with a staple gun. Swiped a lifetime

supply of stickies.

Now paper clips clamp his tie.

Inhales the Mr. Sketch as

though it’s glue. Elmer’s

gave our fingers

another epidermis.

Remember? Why the bull on its façade

when it’s the horse whose trot

you heard when it was opened?

Our subconscious is an archive.

Like one that cannot bear

to chuck the Chiltons.

Bro with the ’82 Camry

needs to fix his rusty

crank. A screw is a poor man’s nail.

Watch the Phillips fasten Christ

upon the wood.

Adhesives are not alike.

The artist

pastes his drawings

with emissions. I no longer

pen of cars.

The skunks are playing

ring around the rosie.

Chanel inside their pockets

not a posy. Where’s our 3am

sense of smell? Your nose has

40 nostrils and the wind is

heaving dung. Grandma’s pie?

It's on the sill

and still nobody came.

The guilt trip was

to Cuba. Cigars with a drunken Che

accomplished nothing. He’d asked to

read the diary that you kept.

He mumbled capitalism, that Bics

have been for ages,

blot when you scrawl of sex.

Andreas Gripp

September 14, 2026

photograph: tomazi / iStock