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

Noir's Eternal Lust

Poem by JD Glasscock

Frames.......blood silhouettes of demured light caressing flesh in small weaves, small dreams...in whispered words shifting perplexity, shifting vision in increments immeasurable in time's muted steps.......Noir, a movement, an emotional by play in shadows..intimacy in the forlorn expression of breaking.....in hope as a finite thing creasing smiles in otherwise creased brows.......it is the breath exhaling it's last feeble reminder to beauty......it is the whimper in the final shudder crawl of infinite infancy............it is the intensity in words carved upon tumultous stage, in dramatic pose to the inevitable.....it is the charm of a smile half drowned in the night of creation..........and her thighs are pearlesque atrophy of slips upon breasts puppeted to lips........a sip of vintage mottled with age and detrius of ecclestial prayer offered in tones infirmament under the light of crescent moons telling tales better left in the hours of eve's last gasp.......it is art in broad strokes and finite cracks of detail so miniscule as to be unseen and it is this paradoxical whims of fate's carpiscious carnal hunger that true loom of woven canvas is seen, between the inbetween, in the shades of light casting night.......Noir......my Goddess, my thread with which to sleep walk my infernal compression of thought.....

A Dream within Sleep

Poem by JD glasscock

She is destined for the scream, a tomb tiled in terror north of lunacy. Her eyes are the moon in etherial reversal of fortune......her limbs branches stretching into roots, into a parable of monsters in backwashed memory....in truncated howls against a dead drop cliff reaching bottom in a slow lid blink of insanity.....she wakes...the dream was palpable and the sweat of her flesh runes fables in rumination of bruises etching fists in yesterdays too close to today........she can never run fast enough, far enough to become the solliloque of a distant sun......and sleep is an aperture to that which she hides from.......a soft hum reverberates in the closing of a tuneless eve....the TV is static, emergency broadcast....

FILM

Excerpt from my feature film script "A God Among Sheep -- The Rise of Maria Salvatore" Based one award winning short films of mine.

By JD Glasscock

Just finished the intro to my upcoming low budget female driven mafia feature -- What do ya think?

Int. intro – vo

The V.O. plays while beginning credits roll and image of a woman’s silhouette who is on one knee, a gun held across her thigh head bowed, facing camera. Blue and Black Smoke frames her. AS VO hits "Anger" she slams up as men come at her. She goes through gun fu moves taking down men in judo throws, shoving a gun under their chin etc, shooting them, Blood splattering, blood dark crimson arterial sprays All of this is just the shadows of people, black except the blood which is dark crimson. Dark swirling blue and black smoke continue to frame the images. When V.O. ends it ends with her aiming gun at camera and shooting screen awash in dark crimson followed by title of film.

V.O. MARIA

I grew up in a world dominated by men. A place where woman were told they were only good for fucking and spitting out babies, where women were nothing. Even as a child that stirred a heat, a simmering anger inside me. Probably why I’m so quick to violence.

I was 5 and my brother 3 when our Momma was shot down right in front of us. I still remember the hot sticky blood splattering my face, the salty taste when I licked my lips. I made a vow in that moment, a solemn prayer. I would never be the victim, I would never be put down like my momma, in front of a fucking restaurant, all doey eyed and scared. I would show them how wrong they were in what a woman could do, what a woman was worth. I would show them a different truth, a hard truth. This is my story. My name is Maria. There will be a lot of blood before it’s done, so if your squeamish, get the fuck out, this is your only warning.

“A God Among Sheep – The Rise of Maria Salvatore”

Deep Groves

Poem by JD Glasscock

counting moments...slips of tongue arcing breath.....trying to carve my way to discernment..truth over flesh.........do any of the masks spinning love around my frame actually hold to this as hard edges....sincerity in the hip pockets of their cast lines....or is it all frail and broken carnival frivoloties to pass the ticking of second hands....what do you believe when duplicity seems to be the road to everything...Hope and gutter swell prayers in the curves they double dutch shuffle in the side periphery of my lone moon haunts is what sustains the theatrics of my belly crawl through the crumbled ruins of this archaic arch I find within the dazed hazed stumble I call life.....yet still....doubt knaws my chewed over bones......my ears tentative to the high stroke timbre of a lie playing hip holster to their verbage.....to their limbs in manic sultry shape......to the patterns of past mistakes......

It's why i do the bi-polar shake bake to the jump cliff huddle down hollow hill to craggy forest junk heap in the seconds it takes to chest heave deep.....it's why in every footfall that places me closer to the sweat of our skin enmeshed in sin I backflip ten feet to shutter curtains between our heat.....it's why every door ghost creaked open to the placement of articulate fingers upon the thumps of blood....I feel the deer in headlight adrenalin game of push and shove.....it;s why lonely hermitage with wailing howls to the beat up harp blues is sometimes an easier road to rule.......easier then the bullseye paint stamp the possibility of intimacy trumps within me.......yet still my pit toss bones in the prescient weave of silk that has laid it's palbability upon the fork tongue adder lisp of my fate leaves me little choice in the cemetary willow that has sung my lullaby since my momma's womb spat me to back alley streets and said goodbye..For in the storybook sigh that has followed all the passing of sun to shade in the drown boogie jazz horned skip step of my solitary transit there has always been the empty symbolistic runed hallow hollow that should be a woman's sillouette.....and no matter the shark teeth grunt pull of my every whim and limb straining against the cosmic pre written loom spun novel of my down trodden hovel...in the end.......my flesh will form to bend...it is inevitable....inevitable as death calling me it's own.....of taking me to the endless dark of the deep grove....