New Age Desolation

New Age Desolation

Poem by JD Glasscock

Intent, regret, i am spent on a letter of remorse, a memorandom of understanding. Narcisistic, nepatistic self immolated absorption seems to be the diadem, the isometric of the dawning age. Let us dime drop respect and courtesy into a pit of irrelevance more important to skull fuck what we want out of the dribbling corpses of inconsequentials......step upon the flesh of humanistic limbs and spirits to garner accolades in the shortest, quickest no merit no work route our inept non existent attention span can skip slip us to. Its is a patriotic slam bam thank you mam schitzophrenic hodge podge of dodge the onus to choices, blame the voices on some other throat issuing warbling miscontent to the faults of others in their inconspicuous game of someone else's name to gather responsibility of actions shooting off your hip shakes.....everyone else's fault in this ass backwards gestault of make and break, take all you see with no consequence to the roads rambling and hammer fisting over other's dreams.....cause what does it matter if we get what we need.....fuck everyone else's hopes and heartaches as long as in the end our bank accounts rise on tides as high as red rope hollywood carpet rides....Hell if our leader's are showing on CNN backwash reports that greed is the seed we should all dream then why not gather our sheep sleep mental run in place epilepsy and join the revolution.....the deevolution of who has the biggest sword makes the rules......shin digs what's cool, bump grinds the criteria of the school....but even as my tongue edge crumbles these cranium dissertations there are a few who hold true to the cavern cave crawls of a good heart bruiser brawl into the do what's right, toil in the hard sweat work of a hard day's night and be a light to the shades we made in this mud spit pit we create.....but they are ostracized for such outlooks, made the but end of a joker's joke in the broken spokes of today's age, everyone with a word about how outdated such honor is in the corner lit lip of rage that carves tomorrow's stage play......but in the end of this grave paved catalyst of inevitable change, we must all see, our choices, actions, avenues we trail blaze through have a fulcrum of temptous back lash, karmic cause and effect hand in hand cosmic clash and that all that we put out, double fold returns in cat o nine tail magnifold long ago told upheaval of never ending come uppance of crack the world immoralistic riven of misery and emptied out shells of our own artistically autisically self regurgitated hells of hollow smiles and cavernous deflated caterwhauls labeled laughs with no real humour in their grasp....and it is our own future we canibilistic carnivore down our gullets as we think to jump hump accolades and who's who in the game.....while the concrete of our stepping feet is the disolution of all we reap and roll out the costume parodies of mirror cracked reflective creeps deep in our rotting meat.......so as i speak, listen.....for the days dwindle, the chances to find kind reservoirs of saliable solutions to the future cobblestone's of our creation are now few and far between and soon to be gone and just a toothpick in death's teeth.........so as we fall and our wings spread to catch it all be sure they are not just cracked and hollow bones broken on the road........for when next you hit the lick of the trip it could be your own blood you slip upon...could be the roundtable return as we watch the world burn.....

Poem -- JD Glasscock

Tribulation does a strut,

Her kiss is sweet

When our hands touch,

It’s tentative, vulnerable

Our eyes revealing too much

Peeling back broken bridges

Cracked sidewalks in smoke hazy mirrors

Dark and shadowed places, her face

Fears and tears buried

Protected

Tributes to ancient tribulations

Scars that walk and talk

Past landscapes, flesh

Soul glide ride

Inside of a dream

Broken shells and

Caverned walls that bleed

I speak of beauty

Residual after shoots

of her eyes

forested mountains

mossy ponds licking meadows

I think sometimes

I think too much

Hollow no feel zone

Bleached bones

On beaches of ash

Tumbled words torn

From scar tissued throat

Belief following utterance

Jarbled sound bytes

My teeth crooked

And wayward

Jagged drips of venom

In the split tongue of a snake

Flickering, sensitive

Imparting whispers

From ethereal lips

To material hips

Nervousness is a disease

Something you ingest

In beginning toddler steps

And eyes that are still remembering

Somewhere else

And the words hit hard

Her exhale, breathing, uttering

“Go for it baby,

go for it”

and her shy glide eyes

say it all

trembling hand

smooth talking skin

ancient age in Saturn pout

and I shout

“You are a dream!”

sculptured curves

wondrous stars

soft sincerity, sanity

and her fingers skip down my chest

flick memories into skin

pain into disease

and she whispers

“Go for it baby,

go for it,

it’s love”

Footsteps in the empty avenues of cobwebs flicking paint in cartoon caricatures(Dedicated to my lovely pixie)

Poem by JD Glasscock

Feet now pillow dropping from mouth in rivers flushing the mierda of my tongue shooting acerbic tirades of spanking hands and pagan chants and women in battle dress ensemble and thoughts of tecate ghost towns holding the retread of my untimely expiration and stumble bumbles into the skill sets of conversing with the female anatomy....been too long......been too wrong......been too many broken asphalt roads between the here and now to the then and was......let me meander the shaded alcoves of tucked in caves and reassert my autonomy of hermitage and lonely blues caterwauling against the fabric of night........I close eyes and sleep to dream the opening of solitude and the prayers of an echoing weave.....The song is the songbird

Curves are the accruement of beauty tasting flesh

Rolling bones to the unpredictable avenues of treaties written in cartoons spelling boons to the untimely attrition of lamenting tongues carving pictographs in the perpetual lack of atonement in the caricatures of falling romance.....she would look good in leather......not plether mind you but the h ard creased edged crinkle of dead animal skin

Poem by JD glasscock

Litigate the immaterial, arterial connivance to the intuitively stricken.......she had a spark to her eyes, her lips and hips.....it was the way she moved.....a strut,a sway to the woman within the woman......puppies lagged her steps lapping up pearls of sweat thrown off as glittering jewels to the dusk......I spur the moon and bronco into the ethereal......she is statute to consequences....to the murder of ideals.........her thighs are the steps I breathe upon the ever ever........solace is in the nectar.......the moon encloses me upon it's meaty breasts...sleep is but a thought away....tombs entrenched in the intonations of solace, immoral divinity to the creation of historical precedence...she wore that dress like ocean to earth......I sleep and dream......tomorrow is a finger tip, a tilt of head and a knuckle roll of silver