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The Sensual Damned

Writer: AdminAdmin

All of us

are hell-bound

in a Yogi’s picnic basket.

 

Forget my alteration

of this tired

allegory—having nothing

at all to do with Jelly-

stone. There’s little in our

lunch to tempt a bear.

 

It ain’t over till it’s

over. So let’s

kick back all the brandy

that we can.

With one-hundred-

twenty Xanax. Shaped like

blocks of Pez. The maxxing

of its strength,

 

that vows to keep us

calm until the end.

We’ll never be afraid

our final moments. Twisting

to the Beatles

before their days with

Maharishi. Shouting

from the geysers

Paul is dead!

 

Knowing that it’s

moments till we join him,

say he was

indeed the lucky one,

have a look-alike

take his place, a mop-top

while he crashed

to a violent

sleep.

 

We will balk

at all the gurus,

say their pitches

missed the plate.

We’ll explore

our sense of stroking ,

inhale as much mesquite

as we are able, click our

lips together like pochette;

launch your little hand-

bag to the blue of

empyrean—dependable,

ever-trusty like Old

Faithful,

 

which they say will

be the spark

to kill us all, the clouds

from molten rock, blinking

out the sun

that’s here and gone,

 

our ash

to tag along , from the fall

of our Du Mauriers’ 

dénouement,

 

like the remnant

of the dust

from which we sprang ,

His breath into our

noses,

 

so we could bask

in the teasing scent

of fruit’s forbode;

its taste beyond our

touch, existing

so we’ll sin

for next to nothing ,

 

locked from some

supposed paradise, 

that was never

really heaven

to begin with.

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 14, 2025


RF Image. Movie still from Vivre Sa Vie (1962)

 
 
 

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