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.