November 11, 2017

Poetry + Snap: “Orwell”

Warning: the following poem contains crude humor, explicit language, ideologically sensitive material, and sexual situations. Reader discretion is advised. 


There they go again.
Booty calls
Tapped through PM’s.
I roll my eyes and
Ignore the piddly size
Of the consolation prize
(If I had to guess,
I’d wager…
Half an inch).

Thank God
I didn’t win
That Star-Spangled Banner pin.
Thank you,
Baby Jesus!
My man never plans
To read this.
And you and yours
Can keep the tining fork
Stuck in the ork-orks’ pork;
That sort of hurt appeases.

Feast on her rump roast
Until it turns to smelly compost.
I tilled my soil yesterday,
Observed the saints of latter day;
Flipped the bird to chase
The scrappy dappy rats away.



Stick it in your blowtorch, too.
I’m not a fan
Of plumber’s crack.
Pull up your pants—
Don’t wanna see your ass, chap!
That’s all I’ve left to say—
I’ll scratch that itch another day.

‘Til then I’ll rest
My dirty dogs in shade.
It’s a pleasant place
To erase the space
Between my ears,
And all my precious fears.

To those who hear:
I’m shouting here,
Loud and clear—
Take your lecher-leers,
Plus all my jeers,
And make a paycheck
At the very least.
Bleat-bleat, little sheep.

Losing, winning,
Lying, sinning…
I’m all in.
George Orwell told it well back then:
We’re all stuck in the same pigpen.

Fox sneaks into the henhouse.
Baby, button up your blouse!
This air is positively polar.
You’ll be much warmer,
Safe inside my arms tonight,
Full moon coasting
Passing pudding heads by.

Tilt your pretty face
Towards the light, just so;
And I’ll show you how
To make me grow.


© Jane Bled 2016-2017
All Rights Reserved

Do not— this bears repeating—do NOT watch this video if you are easily offended, triggered by people using dildos as dancing props, or unwilling to subject yourself to a performance that falls outside your comfort zone.