You should never
walk your dog
if you are drunk. It just may be
you conjure some ridiculous
requiem, on how living would be
better
if dung was iridescent, vomit
viridian; if incendiary plumes
ascended in a floral
spectrum—like the petals of
Nagasaki,
Gaza and Hanoi;
or how gorgeous
death would look
if we bled in beige
instead, the clouds a score of
scarlet as if they bore our every
sin to Beaulah Land,
where it rains in mists of
teal, sung of with our
tongues which spit the loveliest
hue of amaranth you’ve ever seen.
Andreas Gripp
August 16, 2026
photograph: shutterstock
No comments:
Post a Comment