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
paradigm shifts exploring praxis heritages
while high on molly and scooping random flotsam sitting
on the floor of a rave downtown,
spent fishing good parking
while crossing into uncharted identities
offering amazing mental headspaces to explore
what lying before and after
the afterbirth gets dragged out
for all the prying eyes to look upon
and wonder
why my testicles are so uneven,
or maybe that is just. a. private. thought.
I forgot to share with my therapist last week,
but no worries,
it all seems to come back into place
on a new moon turned purple at the sight
of a red market in October
Fred Aiken Writing 