parting ways with strangers sounds sleazy when you add in pornographic words
to describe their expressions and movements,
like, the svelte alabaster beauty with taunt skin and a stride like a gazelle flows ebulliently towards the door,
only to be confronted by a pizza delivery driver with a thick sausage in a box of empty promises
at any given moment, with no warning, without hesitation, little by little,
the creak of the steps give, sway, moan to the weight of meat, sweat, bones,
curled into itself, around itself, bounding for a singular destination
while whistling with sweet nectar spittle crusted at the lip with bits of apple still clinging from an unkempt mustache
as a long, impassable night burrows into an interminable dawn,
with little crows chirping some made-up song they heard on the radio,
while I just try to get some sleep, why won’t it ever come?
pages of madness whispering into stones etched into mountains made of plexiglass
as piles of degenerate thoughts masquerade as sensible thought bubbles
well formatted in the formaldehyde of brain matter
scattered all over the wall
please don’t tell anyone, I’d hate to explain
Fred Aiken Writing