Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 13
November 9, 2011
Character Machine
FauxPoWriMo #9
Character Machine
The hour sets the scene for slaughter. Lady Danger knows it well and rings the bell,Beckoning the burgers-to-be And bludgeoning their brainsWith politicsAnd passion-plays.She knows the long sip that will coax them in,Those children dressed for the graveyard cotillion.She pinches each cheekAnd grins."My, but it's been a dog's age" she crows,And they flock to her grinder:Her character machine.They will soon know her game.They will be more than food for gluttons, But there is blood on the Lady's hands.It pleases her and terrifies them."Murder!" they cry on the tongue's last waggle.She giggles as they tumble into her glass, bobbing.They are only bone below the neck,But there is more meat in the marrowThen in the moral majority. When all is said and done,When every scrap is crimson clay,Play is all that remainsAnd Lady Danger can sled the hill on humeri.
Character Machine
The hour sets the scene for slaughter. Lady Danger knows it well and rings the bell,Beckoning the burgers-to-be And bludgeoning their brainsWith politicsAnd passion-plays.She knows the long sip that will coax them in,Those children dressed for the graveyard cotillion.She pinches each cheekAnd grins."My, but it's been a dog's age" she crows,And they flock to her grinder:Her character machine.They will soon know her game.They will be more than food for gluttons, But there is blood on the Lady's hands.It pleases her and terrifies them."Murder!" they cry on the tongue's last waggle.She giggles as they tumble into her glass, bobbing.They are only bone below the neck,But there is more meat in the marrowThen in the moral majority. When all is said and done,When every scrap is crimson clay,Play is all that remainsAnd Lady Danger can sled the hill on humeri.
November 8, 2011
Pesticide
FauxPoWriMo #8
Pesticide
When I was ten, I killed a cricketWith a stick thatmade me King.Quelling curiosity,I made the cricket sing.
Once a chirping soldier leapingO'er the sleepinggreen and gold,It was naught by empty armorFaced with Death at ten years old.
Pesticide
When I was ten, I killed a cricketWith a stick thatmade me King.Quelling curiosity,I made the cricket sing.
Once a chirping soldier leapingO'er the sleepinggreen and gold,It was naught by empty armorFaced with Death at ten years old.
November 7, 2011
Out of the Woods
FauxPoWriMo #7
Out of the Woods
I walk the stone-fields of home, watching industry turn alpineAnd craft too many houses with too few backyards.The old manor at the foot of the knotted Hampstead hill is gone.
What happened to the squatter, I will never know,But I imagine him somewhere below the pavement,Knocking on the sidewalk's undersideAnd begging for something I still cannot give.I stomp and he knocks back,Letting me know we are likewise entombed.Past the squatter's lot, the bramble-lined paths we cut with sticks-turned-swordsAre only roads now.They turn with an ease that trees refuse
And lead travelers too readily out of the woods.
As a child, I hoped I'd never find my way out.
Out of the Woods
I walk the stone-fields of home, watching industry turn alpineAnd craft too many houses with too few backyards.The old manor at the foot of the knotted Hampstead hill is gone.
What happened to the squatter, I will never know,But I imagine him somewhere below the pavement,Knocking on the sidewalk's undersideAnd begging for something I still cannot give.I stomp and he knocks back,Letting me know we are likewise entombed.Past the squatter's lot, the bramble-lined paths we cut with sticks-turned-swordsAre only roads now.They turn with an ease that trees refuse
And lead travelers too readily out of the woods.
As a child, I hoped I'd never find my way out.
November 6, 2011
Twas the Night Before Christmas...kind of...
Twas the night before Christmas when I finished the rum And wrapped up my drunken "pa rum pa pum pum" The stockings were hung, haphazardly so, Too close to the fire and starting to glow.
The children were still up, waiting for morn, Reading their young adult vampire porn. I passed out on the landing, the stairs were too steep. I'd had too much liquor to do more than sleep.
A clamor outside made me wake with a yawn And my dream about Neil Patrick Harris was gone. I grumbled and groaned and tripped over the trash Of pre-christmas presents I'd trade in for cash.
A shadow was cast on the lawn, badly kept. Plastered and puzzled, outside I schlepped. When, what to my hammered, red eyes should appear A decorative deer missing both of its ears.
With a little old redneck behind the deer, crouched, I remembered I'd earlier punched the guy out. More rapid than gumbo, lost hours arrived, Reminding that rum wasn't all I'd imbibed.
On uppers, on downers, peyote and grass, Nutmeg and mushrooms, all before Sunday mass. To the top of my head to the toes in my shoes, Dash it all, I shouldn't have added the booze.
The man by the deer was at last coming to, And I hadn't the foggiest idea what to do. Back on his footing, he pointed a finger: A ivory sausage sprinkled with ginger.
I ran for my house, away from the beast Who pranced like a hippo covered in grease. As I drew closed the door, he fell in the mud, Waking the children with his mighty thud.
They stared at me, wide-eyed, through wrought-iron posts. Looking like rosy-cheeked Aryan ghosts. I couldn't deny their looks of surprise, With fire reflected in their glistening eyes.
The flames: how they crackled! The stockings, how charred! It was a good thing no kids were around to be scarred. That's right! There were kids! Behaving so rotten They reminded me of something I'd till then forgotten.
I'd been having such a wonderful holiday ball, I only then realized I had no children at all. Stuck between fire and some one else's kin, I wondered whose goddamn house I was in.
So chubby and plump was the man at the door, I laughed when he once more fell to the floor. I didn't laugh long when he smashed in the glass, And unlocked the door surprisingly fast.
He spoke not a word but went straight for my head. Followed by a man dressed only in red. "Santa?" I squeaked before the man choked me out. I awoke when the fireman laid me on the couch.
"You partied too hard," he said with a grin That had hints of eggnog, tobacco, and gin. "It's the night before Christmas, this is real living," I said, and he chortled, "It's only Thanksgiving."FauxPoWrimo #6
One Rake Against the Tree
FauxPoWriMo # 5
Saturday's poem was written while sitting outside at my friend Lindsay's house during our annual "Joss Because we Love Whedon" party. So, dressed as BAD HORSE from "Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog", in the midst of fallen leaves, I penned this piece.
One Rake Against the Tree
Clover peeks through an orange Fall,
Sparking dreams of piled leaves,
Leaps that precede laughter,
And scratches that follow.
He always waited with the ointment,
Ready (and happy) to fix it all.
Then there were the smiles,
The hugs,
And the "I love you Daddy"s he heard so little in the Falls to come.
When the clover peeks
And the good dreams speak,
He smiles, raking alone.
Saturday's poem was written while sitting outside at my friend Lindsay's house during our annual "Joss Because we Love Whedon" party. So, dressed as BAD HORSE from "Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog", in the midst of fallen leaves, I penned this piece.
One Rake Against the Tree
Clover peeks through an orange Fall,
Sparking dreams of piled leaves,
Leaps that precede laughter,
And scratches that follow.
He always waited with the ointment,
Ready (and happy) to fix it all.
Then there were the smiles,
The hugs,
And the "I love you Daddy"s he heard so little in the Falls to come.
When the clover peeks
And the good dreams speak,
He smiles, raking alone.
November 4, 2011
condemn the judge
A few things inspired this piece, but mostly I just turned on music, notably "Il viaggio a Reims" and started typing. The poem's shape was mostly happenstance, although when I reached the last few lines, I did try to keep the cascading shape alive. This is very different from my usual poetry because it's very stream of consciousness, but that's what I really dig about it. Enjoy!! :)
condemn the judge
can't you find the cooler you:the one who digs and chills insteadof one who drags worlds through puddles formed of bitter, bereft, and beaten-down rejectsfrom reality shows, pageants, and the religion race,lost as it is, as we are, lost as god is with his one-way road rashburning from sunday mass to teakettle over all of us beautiful killers,sinners, tramps, and dancers at the helm of worlds bettered by studded kisses.
condemn the judge
can't you find the cooler you:the one who digs and chills insteadof one who drags worlds through puddles formed of bitter, bereft, and beaten-down rejectsfrom reality shows, pageants, and the religion race,lost as it is, as we are, lost as god is with his one-way road rashburning from sunday mass to teakettle over all of us beautiful killers,sinners, tramps, and dancers at the helm of worlds bettered by studded kisses.
November 3, 2011
Battle Ballet
FauxPoWriMo #3
Battle Ballet
A dangerous drink
Deceives the dancers again.
Our glasses are dry.
Battle Ballet
A dangerous drink
Deceives the dancers again.
Our glasses are dry.
So, I won this Blog Award...
...And what a fantastic surprise it was!! The Liebster Blog Award is granted by readers to their favorite up-and-coming bloggers with under 200 followers. My award was bestowed by always fabulous Georgina Morales , author of "Perpetual Night" and other awesome tales.
I only just started this blog in September and I'm still getting the hang of it, so I'm crazystupidhappy that someone has acknowledged my blog as well as the pieces I've shared on it.
Thank you so much, Gina, for thinking of me for this award. Everyone should check out her blog, Diary of a Writer in Progress, as well as the work she has available for purchase through Post Mortem Press, Amazon, and elsewhere!!
Now, it's time to pay it forward (KEVINSPACEYRULES ahem.). I will now pick my five favorite blogs and give them the Liebster Blog Award!! Those five sites are...
The Real Matt Daddy by Matt Peregoy
Someday, when I'm Famous by Melissa Luznicky Garrett
...here we are...going by Charlie Smith
Gina McKnight by Gina McKnight
T.R. Stoddard's Writing Refuse by T.R. Stoddard
In accepting the Liebster Blog Award, the recipient agrees to:
- Thank the person that gave the award and link back to their blog
- Copy and paste the award to your blog
- Reveal the 5 blogs you have chosen to award and let them know by commenting on their blog
- Hope they pay it forward by accepting and awarding it to bloggers they would like to honor
THANK YOU AGAIN TO GINA!!
November 2, 2011
Running with Sisters
The house had an aroma neither sister could place.
One said Gardenia.
The other, Gasoline.
The old oak invited them to play.
One wanted to swing from its arm.
The other wanted to skin it green.
Mother sang the supper call.
One girl was grateful.
The other grumbled and glared.
Entertainment made the night.
One sister's concert commenced.
The other ran with the mares.
The morning brought hues of violet and gold.
One called it Elegant.
The other, Expected.
Art and science schooled.
One sculpted from scraps.
The other dissected.
On the hill, they sat alone.
Holding each other,
Becoming one within the squeeze.
Trouble and Triumph: two sisters
Wondering whether their leaps would end
With blue ribbons or bruised knees.
One said Gardenia.
The other, Gasoline.
The old oak invited them to play.
One wanted to swing from its arm.
The other wanted to skin it green.
Mother sang the supper call.
One girl was grateful.
The other grumbled and glared.
Entertainment made the night.
One sister's concert commenced.
The other ran with the mares.
The morning brought hues of violet and gold.
One called it Elegant.
The other, Expected.
Art and science schooled.
One sculpted from scraps.
The other dissected.
On the hill, they sat alone.
Holding each other,
Becoming one within the squeeze.
Trouble and Triumph: two sisters
Wondering whether their leaps would end
With blue ribbons or bruised knees.
Both
The house had an aroma neither sister could place.
One said Gardenia.
The other, Gasoline.
The old oak invited them to play.
One wanted to swing from its arm.
The other wanted to skin it green.
Mother sang the supper call.
One girl was grateful.
The other grumbled and glared.
Entertainment made the night.
One sister's concert commenced.
The other ran with the mares.
The morning brought hues of violet and gold.
One called it Elegant.
The other, Expected.
Art and science schooled.
One sculpted from scraps.
The other dissected.
On the hill, they sat alone.
Holding each other,
Becoming one within the squeeze.
Trouble and Triumph: two sisters
Wondering whether their leaps would end
With blue ribbons or bruised knees.
One said Gardenia.
The other, Gasoline.
The old oak invited them to play.
One wanted to swing from its arm.
The other wanted to skin it green.
Mother sang the supper call.
One girl was grateful.
The other grumbled and glared.
Entertainment made the night.
One sister's concert commenced.
The other ran with the mares.
The morning brought hues of violet and gold.
One called it Elegant.
The other, Expected.
Art and science schooled.
One sculpted from scraps.
The other dissected.
On the hill, they sat alone.
Holding each other,
Becoming one within the squeeze.
Trouble and Triumph: two sisters
Wondering whether their leaps would end
With blue ribbons or bruised knees.
