Fred Aiken Writing

anarchists fleeing from bombarded ships flooded

in the streets,

made momentous by continuous momentum stirring

through veins, collapsed cityscapes scrapped from being listed

by settlers sleuthing organic matter falling from histrionics

of volcanic heights, stopped in the middle of the street,

to the noise of half-thought-out sentences sprayed

and sanitized with Lysol wipes

quipped from the deleterious effects of deletantes led to dinner in

a feast meant for a king and

adorned by peasants creating their own credit card debt out of thin

air, high above the sea, grooves of the peninsula sharpening

out of the remnants of what’s left in the streets

as anarchists flee, flex, boil to the surface on segues trailing intrigue

catching fire from thoughtless arsonists atop buildings built by martyrs

from a slim, but slimming margin cut

from the bone, right to the plate,

delicious to eat

but nothing to pray