Fred Aiken Writing

all moments spent looking for something shiny while thinking about the dullness thumping at the corner of my cranium going sixty miles per hour, steaming off into a night made glorious by ingloriousness, jonesing forlorn looks at the ticking arms spread thin to embrace the all encompassing, head collision with a rock piled high and cemented in sterling aluminum spat out of the core of a planet too tired to say no anymore, won’t it look dazzling, siempre deslumbrante