and not because I’m
pulled
by the colour black.
Actually, all the pigments
combined will equal black.
So it’s really just
considering
every hue that breathing
gives us. And rainbows
aren’t it. Their unicorns
never real. A lie
to every child.
Give me the
darkest stallion
you can find. Riderless.
Its neigh
more like a demon’s
gravelly throat,
one that’s forged in
flames; that when everything
is burned
it turns to noir.
My wildest dreams
occur
there in the dark. In a nightly
occultation.
And before you brood
I’m sketching ouroboros
think again. I’ve no
Bauhaus
on my playlist.
I never had a crush
on Wednesday Addams.
It’s just my tortured
poems, my scrawling
on the two-face
of existence,
that living has a
funny way of doling
out its payoffs:
the juggling of
the acorns
in the woods—
the one that’s dropped
the winner, will one day
soar three-hundred
fucking feet
into the sky ;
then chopped into
a puzzle for IKEA ;
the emaciated, gasping
boy
in South Sudan,
the in-and-out of
flies in caving nostrils;
and then the half-a-
billion charge
towards the egg ,
only one to wear the
laurel, thinking that it's
won the prize of life,
the untold thrill of
defeat
that’s still to come,
the agony
of my supposed
victory.
Andreas Gripp
March 13, 2025
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