Tetris mongers sequester greatness behind their bold stares of indifference in the face of the ever-widening disposition that’s associated with glorified females of every genus, towards what good we do not know, though our key musicians tell us there’s a gypsy stalker walking among us. However long they stalk is a question for a time when birds speak as American tourists stealing glimpses at rarified monuments, disturbingly beautiful, the colors unpredictable, tanning corneas with a vigorous display of burning Monopoly money—green, blue, yellow and, of course, beige, the color of our omnipresent dominators who have become quite taken with keeping the poorer men down for whatever reason they can come up with on such short notice. As a result of this conditioning, the collective staff workers of these immoral superiors have become quite rebellious. For example, they should know to knock before entering the study, lest their tracheas burst from a cane to the neck as they turn around to shut the door they just opened a second ago while thinking, “you know, I probably should have knocked on that door, but he’s probably not in there anyway; at a boardroom, yes, but his study at ten thirty on a Tuesday morning is preposterous! And of course this comes on the heels of the day both my hands were severely broken from an unfortunate mowing incident. I was due to receive a pay raise, but instead had to settle for an extended hospital stay and a get well card.”


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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