Every poem I’ve offered
has been forged and cried
before,
by another bloody bard,
who beat me to the punch.
I’d like to toss a
punch upside his head
(yes, his. I’d do nothing of
the kind to a woman/poet. I’d
lock my gaze upon her,
with my grandma’s
evil eye. Never discount
the worth of
bad genetics).
What? Another fucking
poem about a bird ?!
Toss it on the heap
with all the rest.
There’s more of
them
than countless
stars and sand. And yup, that’s
been said already.
Why have we yet to
finish Pi ?
And my flower in the
meadow? Done for the
trillionth time.
But it’s bursting through
the snow, while the others
are merely bulbs. Done,
you ignorant fool.
What about my hound
who disappeared?
While playing
fetch the stick?
Done. Bought the T-
shirt. No one gives a shit
about your grief. We’re all
desensitized ; painted
into corners
by our clichés.
So please forgive me,
darling , for ceasing
to pen you verse. For
avoiding the blue of
your orbs. Evading
the taste of your
mouth. I’d be drawn
to page and ink,
its fishhook/gravity
(yes, yes, I know.
You don’t have to tell me)—
fervently a-sweat,
ripping out my hair
to say what no one’s
screamed before
in a thousand years.
Andreas Gripp
February 2, 2025
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