Fred Aiken Writing

feeding the poet will not be tolerated,

get back,

step back,

do not approach, or if you do, approach with extreme caution,

if they sense anything sweet or savory, then they will pounce and be on you like a boar on a wildebeest,

or whatever is their natural enemy,

wild dangerous poetic attacks can be the most vicious things you suffer,

but so long as you stay away,

do not approach,

and especially do not feed,

then most poets will die soon enough, hungry, emotion-filled lumps of clay,

with plenty of dust bunnies in their pocket

dying fashionable while bleeding out on the floor is a lot harder than you’d think

when you try to go vague,

but it’s the only way to die,

or else you end up as some ugly looking corpse that everyone laughs at

because they think you have a weird looking penis,

and that your muffin top is too muffiny,

which will lead to the coroner and whoever else comes to see your saggy, flabby body,

to conclude that you could never satisfy your wife properly,

and she’s probably better off now that you’re dead,

but at least I look good, I think,

can you tell me if I look okay in this pose?

boxed in by the sunlight as eyelids fold over in slow motion, rewind, freeze framed,

replay, redo, restitution sitting on the couch waiting for the call that we’re ready for you, come on in,

don’t be shy, don’t frighten easy, but look as if you do, it’s a lot sexier when you fake fear than an orgasm,

but probably less effective in the long run,

past its prime, past date, rotate, find another place on the shelf, in the back with all the other forgotten

items stuck to the abyss to be discarded at some point, one day, whenever we get around to it,

recycled into a lithium powered wash cycle rinsing off grime that never wants to leave, sit, stay, rollover for the cameras,

just don’t look directly at the lens, don’t pout,

looked scared, then smile