Fred Aiken Writing

grey matter splashed up against a pink backdrop as fervent woods
shoot through a glass ceiling

made clear by night shivering in the back of a used Lincoln
with kids toys strewn about in a literal littered fashion with decomposing logs seeping oleic acid from the putrid confines of ash sap
sipping Mai Tai’s at the beach while contemplating whether or not

a surf tattoo would be better than a vampire tattoo on the left or right bicep…or both or none