surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
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 Glasscock6 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 Glasscock6 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 Glasscock6 years ago in Poets
