©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 speech; unencumbered by expectations. Awakening. My purpose: to exhibit my art. Thank you for browsing my gallery. Fakes: stay away. Namaste.


All Things Jane Bled, Poetry, Prosetry, Writing


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