Shutter-blind

She rivals the sunlight

A universal peace-beacon

Moored to her heroic harbor

Undefeated in ardor

 

A portable paysage

Painted by seafaring strokes

Safeguarded by extraterrestrial

Starfuckers, bros, blokes

Battling galaxies of alien truckers

Pushing their luck

For a fuck and a suck

Pulling fast ones on their guns

A showdown at sundown

Frowning: “It’s my town”

 

Vixens verklempt

Stemming steamy compound gems

Stealing carbon monoxide

From encephalopathy-inclined

Verbalizers

Rhapsodizing about Sondheim

Clamoring for the crew to chase

Water-propelled hovercrafts

Holding cells stuck, stultifying

Space-copter’s updrafts

 

Savage eyes espy

Servile sabotage

Pipsqueaks scamper past

A squalling sky-ship horloge

Heirlooms adorn

Bullet-studded bowfins

Cabana boys serve Bellinis

Starched collars turnt up

Under lock, absent key

Take poundings by surf spray

Keening arias like Mimi

 

Across the (a)isle

Exhumed mantled plumes

On the bride’s side or groom’s?

She wears her gloom like a veil

He reins in his wagging tail

Tuxedo

Holy Grail

Help inbred

The sweetbreads breed

Harvesting interstitial seed

At light-speed

 

What droll

Denominations

Denunciations

Demotivate

The fastened chafings of

Vengeance, how it surges

To refit the backings of mangled

Miséricorde

Through malignant metastasized

Metaphors

Scrubbed off rest stop

Restroom floors

 

Backdoor

Backwoods

Backyard

Barbecue briquets

Shorn, hewn, inlaid

Booty acquired through

Dishonorable means

The bar-brawl spoils

Of stuck-in-the-drunk-tank

Victories

Not moribund monsters but

Mutations of verbosity

Avoiding portended atrocities

 

As consciousness sleeps

In the nebulous space between

Lips, tongue, eyes, ears, brain

Choo-choos chugging along sluggish rails

Of backlogged thoughts

Backstroked luck

And the conscience he bought

Never seen but still sought

After his backstabbing wife

Untied her love-knot

Until he vowed

He loved her

Not

 

Beseeching for

Another shot

At dropping off

The face of the planet

But it’s best not to plan it

Or it won’t feel organic

And he might start to panic

When the going gets gone

Not your typical rom-com

But a convincing cover

Of a hit country song:

“Oh, Lord! She Done Me So Wrong”

It was him all along

 

Slipshod sketchings shared

Over a beer-guzzled gas

Pedal depressed without class

Raze the red target

Her flag’s raised

At half-mast.

 

***

© Jane Bled 2017


dreamstimefree_59247

Dried roses © Clara Natoli | File ID: 59247 | Dreamstime Stock Photos


Slowly, but surely.

Peace.

Jane

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About Jane Bled

Dreaming, writing, singing. Curious queer human. Soul-deep; heart speaks.

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All Things Jane Bled, DJ Play That Beat, Free, Poetry, Writing

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