Not Another Fucking Poem About A Tree

There are too many poems about trees.

How leaves bud in April, bloom in May.

How birds bound on branches, lilting

each lifting of the sun.

There are too many poems about leaves.

How gracefully they fall, and the

vibrancy of autumn red

that bursts like an agѐd sun—

the climax of pleasant weather ; a warning

of the icy, barren limbs that are soon

to come.

Spare me another poem about the trees.

I’m tired of their trunks

and fed up with their foliage.

Write of maggots

instead—yes of maggots.

How they feast on rotting flesh

and vile waste.

Then we ourselves

will be beautiful.

Andreas Gripp

Andreas Gripp