©Kasia Biel – Dreamstime Stock Photos

I upchuck overwrought adjectives from the steaming stomach of my vocabulary and glare at the undigested mass of regurgitated indignities. Could verbal vomit neutralize a less loathsome stench? Would unprocessed, preservative-free lingo, as yet unsullied by hefty quantities of bitter bile, emulate the floral quality of five dozen roses?

Inspired by ritualistic repetition, my pen’s retched-out redactions reek more pungently than the feces of waste-weevils that teem in swarming droves from my dope-drunk duodenum. Vocalizing death-rattle throes with dull-ache diction, my voice box rumbles through hoarse paroxysms of apocalyptic gallows humor. Hearty, thick with despair, ultimately indigestible, the words gush out in rivulets of black and blue, under-eye hematomas tattooed on the pages of my open-wound suffering: a lacuna of love’s lack. A testament to my other half: misery.

For my queen.


About Jane Bled

Human. Happy in my solitude. Free of expectations. Awakening. Light side: love, peace, art. Dark side: ****** I despise the word 'follower'. It calls to mind lemmings, sheep, cults, etc. Here to exhibit my art -- not aiming to gain a flock of seagulls that mournfully cry out my name as they fail to reach me.


All Things Jane Bled, Poetry, Prosetry, Writing


, , ,