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....

Poem by JD Glasscock

She said my mind was an egg shell walk, a house of cards in a perpetual slow motion fall....i told her she's right, it's upon the edge of fragility where my paint brushes find the most canvas....where her silhouette in that low key lighting as she steps over the horizon provides the most inspiration, creates the Davinci of her fading soliloquy

Twisted Gate

poem by jd glasscock

in the sleep time of distant memory

a requim to the fillm noir

black and white frames

of a forlorn history

the twisted gate was the foghorn of our steps

We met in the dark ethers of moons yet cast

our hands tentativly seeking lost preludes

to kisses never tasted

flesh never comsumed

Her hunger was palpable fornication

of reunification of roads meant to tie

the cupid pierce of a forever haunt

a heat simmering wants in deep glades

butter wrapped in a guise called love

the tickling of skin, small circles being formed

by fingers agitated in unsure articulation

We spread our lies in thin tethers

heart thumps bugling isolation in a word

a look

her limbs were pirrouettes in the repose of truth

the gate sent screeching

iron to mark the passage of goodbyes held

before hellos softened tongues

They say stories are just a spinning globe

running themselves into perputuity

of repetition

That we crayon draw the precipice of our own falls

that in the dissolution of our illussion

we partake in the immolated aroma of the bruises

forming art upon our bones

that it be our own fists planting imprints across spectral

fluidity

in other words....we bit teeth to crooked teeth

in the consumption of

our own cannabilistic mourning...

loathing....

He whistled melancholy stiitched into

other wordly drifts

of memorials to the sorrow

lining bottled ships never brave enough

to leave docks...

And sailors wantonly deep throat

banners of lucidity and duplicity

to etched barbies with puppeteers

pulling strings to movements

of imposable will....

the iron of swinging bars

wails to the tricked trump

of this paradoxical query

They both pass ghosts

who wave in connected continuity

lives trickling mirrored answers

to the fumbling of their sincerity

Honesty is a many bristled beast

who causes stutter stare shakes

and dark closet movie remakes

with huddled forms painting shadows under

toddler shaped beds....

They will spin the faulty mishap of their ever dwindling

daudling in the hopes that the next passing

will be the last

while an alcoved audience peels

belly croaks to the inevitbility

of tradgedy marking the ignorance

of their stumbling carnal ineptitude

the shades that follow the querolous

innundation of their eternal white eyed

cave shawl

And a low ground hugging wind

rolls the movement of twisted gates

howling

forever vocal restraints into the cacophony

of life rewinding itself in broken bridges

to the record spinning itself on the same melody

on the same linear scratch thinking itself original

in it's bop bop bop..stop the clock

crooning.....

and two fading frames sculpt the acrimony

of two celestial spirits too afaid to lock hips and lips

and understand the breaking of chains....

tick...tick......tick........breathless

The short film I wrote for Dick Down's alternate persona Mike Ferguson

A Door in a Window

by

JD Glasscock

int. house – night

A man holds a hand held camera pointed at himself, very documentary style.

mason

What makes a hero? What is the right thing to do? I served my country, was sent all over the world and told to stand for freedom, help the helpless and kill the right people. There’s that word “Right” again. (Dirty laughter) As the years went by I realized it was all a crock of shit. They only sent me to countries that had shit we wanted, oil, minerals, strategic locations, all to put more money in the hands of people with already way too much of it. (Silence, his face a look of sorrow) My wife was my everything, my moral compass on these bloody streets and dark shades that grew darker on every tomorrow I opened my eyes to. She was my navigation, , my heart, my home you could say. (Big sigh) Someone recently gave her a dirt nap while i was in some piss pit across the globe. Someone took the one thing that kept me on a leash and thinking on what was right, made me ask the hard questions. Someone took that from me.stole it right out of my fucking hands. SInce then I have been wandering in a daze, stumbling and knee cap smacking in a maze of bruised walls and fuck me moments. (Look of determination) Let’s go back to where I started. (Stares hard into camera) What makes a fucking hero? What is the right fucking thing when wrong seems the answer to almost every god damn choice made in this corporate bottom line stage play? Only thing I got is her memory, the words she always said to me. “Your my hero, my man. I know you will do what is right, it is the only thing I know.” Hell, she knew a lot more then I ever did. I’m taping this for posterity so maybe some day, people can see what happens when you push a man too far, when all he is given is hard choices.

He stops and points camera at a door. He moves closer to door. He points camera back at his face.

Mason

Once i do what needs doing on the other side of that door I’m gonna do my god damn best to live up to what she saw in me. I’m gonna go around this country and fix shit that needs fixing, kill people that for once actually deserve to be killed. I’m gonna clean this fucking shithole, one gutter at a time. (Points camera at door) It’s all I got left.

Camera becomes his POV hand held style. It moves up to the door. His hand comes into camera to open door. Camera leads as he moves into the garage. In front of him are two men looking scared shitless, tied and gagged to chairs. Off camera is the next dialogue.

Mason

You two raped and killed my wife. I want you to think about that and that your tied and gagged to two chairs in the house of the man who loved her and who gets paid for a living to kill people.

The men’s eyes grow wider still and they start jerking and bucking wildly, one chair falling over, He points the camera at his own face.

Mason

You all don’t need to see this part. Its gonna get ugly.

Camera is dropped to ground looking at wall.

Mason

I got to be honest to you two. I’m gonna make this last a long time.

Sounds of fists hitting flesh.