January 8, 2018

Poetry: “Drop It”

Warning: the following poem contains sexual content and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.


I came close enough
To lick Mic’s head,
But shied away from
The dreaded feedback…
Fuck that bullshit!
I’m Deep Throat
Not one to gloat
About doting on some tote-sporting
Quid-bribing trophy colt
You bloody idjit
Damn right kid
I did it
Slipped your gal pal
A cropped-top sticky note
Sussing out
If said one-note poem’s
All’s that tone-deaf dolt wrote
Like she’s a knockoff
Chippin’ off the old block
Of Victoria Holt
So ask Sandy Bullock
If Hope still

Sweetie pie-in-the-sky
You’re young and wild
Daring, uncaring
I’m tit-feeding the tittering fairy
Babysitting your tweets
Thumb-twiddling like
An eye-rolling parent
Mommy pats your head
And condescends to reply:
“Hi! Thanks for dropping by
Though I think you can better
On the next assignment
Consult your horoscope —
It’s crucial —
The stars malign in alignment.”
But honestly honeybun
You’re a far cry from stardom
Lord knows your talent
Could use a boost in endowment
Better start practicing street poetry
On your knees
If you please

Why’d you ask me?
I don’t possess
The divinity rod
Just the power
To polish the hob-nob
And keep him rock-hard
Blue-ball the cue ball then
There’s something I gotta know
Are you willing to swallow
My sloppy seconds
If so,
Get used to collecting rejection
For that jovial gremlin
Reading up on how to upend
Her shot at redemption
Poison the prick with
Amazon’s Pick
‘Samuel’s Guide to Hemlock:
An Annual Manual’

Our hands –
Understated –
Cradle love
Become hatred
Besotted thoughts —
The ones that we fought —
As the curtain falls,
Revealing all
Baiting our race to undress
Unrehearsed under
An absentee of duress
When the flickering compass
Pointing inward
Guides with assurance
Cardboard-car insurance in
A paint-by-numbers cityscape set
Coaxing his captive —
No doubt about it
Her cunny’s still wet —
The sex partner’s straitjacket
Snug around the patient
Their legs entangled
Try an unfamiliar angle
His red-tipped stamen
Brother, can I getta amen?
Would you lie with me then, laymen?
Ooh-we ooh-we ooh-we

Our waiting perishes
Seedling passion flourishes
Pollination come spring
We crush on
Our fling
One times zero
Plus three

And the flower
Fucks thee.


© Jane Bled 2016-2018
All Rights Reserved.

The S(t)inger © Jane Bled