Fred Aiken Writing

wasted gigabytes of data delayed in some made-up hole created out of memory foam

and rattlesnake skins that doesn’t feel comfortable, but at least looks damn fine,

describing destitute dilettantes and dalliances with foreign officials with

official titles in official looking clothing with attaches and, I dunno, some pen that shoots bubbles made of cyanide

while planning for a picnic in winter so they can have privacy,

while they share gossip about which chancellor or prime minister is hotter,

for love of country, for the love of God, please just don’t say my name