An Airing of Grievance

I would appreciate any feedback this board has to offer. Comments, criticism, death-threats, are welcome!
Thanks in advance
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I sit.
I sigh...
Ahem.
It's with a hopeless heart I always perambule, preamble. I refuse to write another word; (This always happens. About as backwards as sleeping lessons). It's so difficult for me to think any more (The self-consciousness is becoming increasingly disconcerting). So instead I leer at the typewriter's immobile typebars, my eyes stretched into slits. Crouched to pounce, I await the arrival of Inspiration, as it frequents these blank landscapes . I'll bind it to the paper. A bear-trap for thoughts, of sorts; a bare-thought-trap, if you will. In nervous anticipation, I pluck a cigarette from its pack, dangle it from my slightly parted lips and smolder, wait...

But alas!
Nothing worth penning, pinning, or trapping. A thrombosis of the Imagination. I desperately try to force it.
Spit it out.

Failure. Forcing a write is like forcing a sh*t: painfully pointless. All I manage to cough up is overly viscous saliva, nothing of substance; i'm parched...

Ah, better. That's the spirit. Now another smoke. Wispy, mellow ecstasy swims and swirls in my lungs, assuaging my wanton want. My throat tingles. And begins to excoriate. I cough. In sharp bursts.

I force myself to cough with more conviction, disgorge, try and get that gag reflex working for me---still no, all I can seem to muster is some mucus and a punctuation mark, or two..

Silver wisps of smoke slip out from between my cracked lips.
I hack; hack; hack; heartily, and feel the first couple of letters scuffle out my mouth, leap, and dribble down my chin, dipped in treacly gastric juices: an, 'A,' and, an, 'N.' I stick my longest finger in the back of my throat. I jab at my punching-bag uvula. Punch; punch; punching it and my keytops; eyes swollen red with tears. And up hops a compact clump of bilious, guttural, choked writing.

The hardest to get out are the 'Z's. I taste silvery liquid in the back of my throat. There's blood in my spit; blood in my letters; All those zig-zags catch in my throat, tear up my tender esophageal tissue. Goddamn seriffed fonts...

There we go. I continue to spew gastric ink onto this page, despite the fact that my gut is empty; (lately i've been purging more frequently than I ought). The skin south of my nose is now patchy, stained, and peeling. It stings. I'm drained. This is all wretched. Too much bingeing analysis, too much regurgitated writing, has stripped me of my ability to produce any writing worth reading. (All i can do is sort things into towering piles. Into corners. What would i do without corners?) Belching my ideas into language just seems so unbearably obtuse. Unintelligibly so. But despite its and my shortcomings, I am a galley slave to pen and ink, (little more than imagined dependance, contrived penance). More! More! Pour it all onto the page!

Oh, goodness here comes More; Ahem. Ahem. Ngggh. The spasms so strengthful now, phlegmatic. I am desperately trying to inhale, but instead get a lungfull of snot. Now panicked, I'm commanded by Sputter, Shudder, and Choke. Right about now, my tongue is beginning to burn and swell. I feel my taste-buds inflamed, furious, their swollen, rashy heads like pimples covering my tongue. My tonsils drowning, pummeled by reddish-brown spit, ventral fluids, and wads of tangled characters: colons, letters, commas, tíldes, ümlauts, exclamations! All wrestling their way up from my tossing, churning innards; inky lemmings leaping from my cliffed lips.

Oh retch! Rrreetttch! (Roll that 'Rrr,' now!) Reetgghch!
The more I see these words, these morphlings, these fledgeling gobs of bloody phlegm, the more I doubt their meaning. Reduced to lifeless chicken scratch, the English language is in a bad way. Little left, little left, no more than forgotten curio, little more than a collection, an accumulation of worthless trinkets and letters and words and phrases whose purpose is no more than to remind me of the places i've been and all the gloriously useless things i've accomplished and all the lettered pedagogues that taught me everything about nothing at all ('Tis but an airing of grievance). Such vast expanses contained within these tiny little things, these letterous nano-universes.
The miasmic stench of vomit is building up in my raw nasal cavities (airs of Grievance).
But it's so easy to forget that these affected scribbles are simply that: The letters that define our perception and our apprehensions have no profundity beyond that which we, as readers and authors (the Heirs of Grievance) attribute to them. Letters are but ink-deep. But shallow they are not!
Ahhgh (a squeal!)! My esophagus has exploded into boils and my mouth's washed in crimson (choking on my own words, my best grin-and-bear-it-face)! Guts knotted and shriveled, do not cease to churn out words,alltangledandtearing out my insides. My worlds, words, and head are falling. It's becoming increthingly dif'cult to speak and think propertly. The tthypewriter's ghetting larrger, closer. Ughh. Bllood, bwile, lghetters, wrrds catch in my froat.
Cghhant b'reeve.

gbvhf jthy

Great usage of onomatopoeia here. I would love to perform this orally on stage as an audition for a play. Thanks for sharing :)

Majestic use of words. Great writing!

thank you both kindly!

If you're still young enough, try some bourbon -- a little nightcap avec le cigarette.
Naw, I'm just ribbing you, maybe you're talking about writer's block; it's a great subject. Especially if it's like really late, nothings going on.
Have you read Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs? That's always good for inspiration. Maybe generate some high-tech cut up poetry, using your PC and a random number generator? Ahem, now you've done it! Now I have a little tickle...