Poetry | 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

holistically confused by the entirety of moving parts

slapped together half-hazardly and called a day or night,

smacked pink by glints of future goo gone amok and stuck to some poor back meant to carry the weight of all that was tossed

into the river and expected to be forgotten,

and distilled into meandering meaning meant to look like fastidious flotsam

passing through the eye of a needle and back again,

but just so long as the place has heating, otherwise I’m out

I sometimes wish the worst possible scenario would play out,

but not just for others, but for me as well,

like a giant meteoroid hitting this floating rock filled with combustible chemicals and people,

or a nuclear was would break out rather than being the awkward ornament every drunken developed nation brings to every UN xMas party,

and it all plays out in some grand fashion that creates massive amounts of casualties,

and I don’t survive, and neither do any of my loved ones,

yet somehow some Han Solo character shows up from outta nowhere,

I mean, no one could have predicted he would be the hero of humanity,

but he comes out with his best,

only to be foiled by the gravity of real life crushing every bone in his meat sack till he is riddled with the realization

that he was never meant for the hero business,

no one is, because it’s a made up industry filled with liars and thieves

that control a narrative that only they can interact with, and no one else plays role

Fred Aiken Writing