JD Glasscock
Bio
J.D. Glasscock started as a slam poet on national teams in 1990. Written and Directed 16 Award winning short films...He also has 16 self published books of poetry, lyrics and film.
Owner of StormCrow Productions
Stories (29/0)
Lycanthrope moon musings and more
A lycanthropic dirge of hunger and forest hunts Almost nine years ago now the spirit of my journey was changed forever......I felt love when the words echoed from her tongue but I either didn't hear the hollowness in the timbre of her sound or chose to ignore it...either way in the end..it was the same...I was just so excited...so unbelievably happy...we had just found out that the heart of the soul in her womb had it's own beat....in my imagination..it would be a thumpin blues rock staccato....a groovin litany of poetical ramblings of love and joyous futures.....so in the next week when she told me she was going to visit her family in Canada I thought nothing of it...continued doing back flips off the wall of paradise....then a week passed...time strange in a translucent slowing of pavement and dream....and when her voice spit the words that would crumble my world...it seemed unreal....a horror...a movie ready to be given thumbs down bad moved to the back shelf of dust ridden cobweb obscurity..."Talking to my parents I have decided something. They want me to continue in their footsteps to a political future and they don't think you have a path that coincides with that...I mean your brilliantly talented but they think and I would have to agree that your never going to make it and you will probably be poor for the rest of your life. ANd... I...I deserve more.....better...so well...what I am trying to say....is..well...I aborted our child.....have a good life..." My spirit did a running sprint for a hole to climb itself into.....a vacant episode of reruns and repeats doing a pirrouette in the silver screen of my eyes, .....the phone fell.....creating a tap tap of plastic striking formica....my limbs leadened and flesh grew cold......arctic breath in the shade of my heart...spent night after night, month after month wrapped in sweat soaked covers...feverish skin, my sleep haunted by a child drifting...unwanted and vibrating shuddering wails to the cosmos....always out of my reach...always just out of a father's love.....A lone wolf I walk in guise since that day......keep a veritable fortress in the haven of my hovel......watch corners for ghosts of liars....count the amount of ticks of sand crawling across my flesh...and keep an eye on people's hands...where they are in proximity to my pockets....Howling my lupine moon strung along my striding hips I lope through the woods of cement.....fangs bared and ready.....forests of untrustworthy puppets trailing humanistic visage....I will not be the victim to another siren's haunt.....I will hunt.......I will survive....I will chew the bones of my dream and take down the meat of my aspirations....I will find myself in the accolades so callously called frivolous and unattainable.....and when my teeth have closed onto the flesh of my prey.....I will scream lycanthropic dirges into the deep recesses of night's dark ballad......and I shall fall to knees shedding the salt I have held in rememberence for my child drifting among the stars of could of beens...
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
Bones and flesh and other poems
Bones and tones in the grinding of hips and absence of lips Poem by JD Glasscock The fever has slid it's venom to the pumping of my blood....too many years without the heat of flesh upon the sin of my want.....too many days and nights without the release of passion upon a women's hips and lips.....too many grains of sand through ovalled glass without the grinding of sweat in the moaning and fervant ass slapping of a woman's eyes rolling into backs of heads and the mumbled verse of harder, faster......
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
Intro to my new feature film script -- A God Among Sheep
Poem by JD Glasscock Her hands were mysteries, eyes.. Dreams you could fall into... Lips that screamed kiss me.. Hard..... When her hips moved her silhouette... Arousal was the only word that could sculpt that image... When sweat grooved itself along her Curves... It made the moon actually stop in it's travel....... She was epiphany... She was ocean waiting, beckoning.. And when she opened her thighs.... Touched herself just so..... Eternity spelled Beauty in the nectar on the end of fingertips.... A tongue danced across the Stars
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
Languid - Poem and a short film
Languid are her thighs Poem by JD Glasscock Spinning silver off fingertips, flipping winks at skirts off the jitterbug of hips, their thighs carving upturns across lips, and my eyes spit smirks across backlit aves, timely esoterics in the wants and the haves, and the sweat off their curves is the articulation of a tongue in the crease of their font, a peek'a'boo jaunt in the nectar of their forever sweet, and the jerk knee blues roll of legs draped across dream is the scream of their tightened throat in the moaning of trips in lollipop wonder....may i have another? The spreading of their open beats is the invite into the swallow dive of timeless divinity....
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Filthy
Mix of lyrics and poems
Eternally fucked up artist Poem by JD Glasscock Thoughts are crazed rides against the fabric of ecclestial perfidity, warped lids of eyes turned spiraling inward into twisted maccabre breaks into dark alcoves and seedy underlit bars.....too many thighs in short skirts and painted on mimicry of emotives in ruby reds and electric purples.....too much cleavage and not enough heart, too much sweat and not enough truth......it is in the knee scuffed beggar's jaunt where hard blues echos much chewed over sooth to the diadem of art's secrets, the cache of genius and the thin divide of such from the cliff drop of white jackets and chains on tangled up limbs, and it is within this fulcrum of need, in this see saw eternally teetered hunger for balance and clarity that the carved brush of masterpiece stretches, claws it's way into the periphreal of a ghost's tombstone smile.....it is in this much talked about ride that we slide into the want of neccessity and the lick lip teeth first chomp of want, it is within the shadows of these story book trees that we seed to breathe and dream, and fuck and thieve all we were ever taught to hold faith against to not believe, and it is in this shit storm we dig up a modicum of wisdom, a kernal of choyed up worth....and it is within this pit of self escapulated delusional set that we understand in that final push to forever, that we are but a child in the pin point of a thread weaving eternity, and our pitiful grasp at immortality is but the parting of lips to the canvas stretched beyond the loom we do not see and can not fathom....that we are the proverbial ant beneath boot... that we are the garden, and the snake, and reaching of hand to forbidden fruit
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
God's Iron and other musings
God's Iron Poem Jd Glasscock A man stomps his way through the door, spurs digging wood, holster with cool iron as lean meat slapping thigh.....he rolls a sardonic whimsy and winks at butterfly girls grooving synchronized moves of sultry across a dust covered floor...he throws a fan of aces upon a table of grizzled men as he spits sin at their feet. "I've come for the tombs you've left behind...."
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
Short Film Script -- A Door in a window plus some poems
Smoke rings are dreams(edited) Poem by JD Glasscock I blow smoke rings around life, exist in the Haze it creates... Hold poverty like a Linus blanket.... Suck my thumb and dream about could bes.... Would of beens.... And count the tick off second hands spelling the terms to falling....I once..... Yesterday..... Do I matter..... The shroud of midnight does a slow Calypso to the ever ever of broken toys. .. My eyes are half lidded and thinking of you... I'm sorry..... Sleep is the one place safety seems assured... Egg shells strewn across sand swirling in a Kaleidoscope of idioms.... My lips echo beauty to the ending of small things.... The door is cracked and the light frail and wavering...a candle gutters in a strong breeze...... Simmetry is left to those with more money then I.... The Haze is slowly drifting apart... The blanket forming holes, eye slits to bones.... Tombs are back drops to ghost stories told in the wee hours of doubt......I crawl through the left overs of the hungry.... Someone save the young..... They are broken on the wheel of progress.... Heavy pockets of old men counting green.... My breathing has slowed... The moon has spoken love..I listen and hope....
By JD Glasscock3 years ago in Poets
