morning moans mourning the lack of moments spent
mocking monumental strings of membranes
splattered across the sky, while muster stains look better
in day-glow raves while clenching a plastic bottle of water
and hoping the turtles don’t mind
keyboard strokes made to look hazardous,
when really the words rarely come out spelled correctly,
or meaning what i intend,
but maybe that’s the point, and i don’t want to be understood,
though that’s probably the chamomile talking,
it makes me kinda rebellious
burning lumps of coal
in my shoes that send a stinging sensation all throughout my body,
but it doesn’t feel all that bad whenever i hum the melody
to the mcdonnie’s commercial and pretend that i’m
an x-(wo)man fishing in the middle of an abandoned,
radioactive,
pond, while gargoyles fly above me like bees in a kicked nest
Fred Aiken Writing 