Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 6

Lousy Lullaby (#NaPoWriMo 18)

This lullaby won't soothe you.
I sing only it to remove you from arms I refuse to admit
Amuse you.


Does she sing you lullabies,
Even lousy ones in lovely guise, sung to revel in your
Sleepy eyes?


Or does her heart stop and start at the chance to use you?


Perhaps it's not the best
For me to sing during your rest and lay my head
Upon your chest.


But she doesn't sing at all
Or lay her head to catch your rise and fall, whether on the bed
Or standing tall.


She doesn't care if you're here or there, only to abuse you.


She's off and running,
Blatantly sunning herself in other affections while you,
She's shunning.


She's fine if you're far away,
If you leave after the deed is paid and never sings
To make you stay.


But I will not use you.
I will not abuse you.
And my lousy lullaby will fight, day and night, to never lose you.

To the Man I Love in Sleep (#NaPoWriMo 17)

To the Man I Love in Sleep

How careless you are with me,
And how enraptured I am.
With your slumber-tug, I find myself your prisoner,
Housed in a hidden place where I surrender all.
Gladly, gratefully.
Nimble fingers play me like an instrument which desires no finale.
Your symphonic breath moves through me as it moves my body
Into doing things I would never do.
I would never bend in that way,
Never allow your touch to break my vows
Or force me to my knees with gratitude on my lips,
Amongst other jewels.
Tied up in your fingers,
I swell and break against your shore
And long to drown consciousness
In your wake.
Though I am not tired, I sleep,
And beg the Sandman to shrink the Desert of Dreams
So I my find faster passage
To your bed.

Insomnia (#NaPoWriMo 16)

His lantern stings my misty eyes,But a gray veil rolls in and softens the glow.A final twist, A final squeal,And exhaustion sets in.I've felt it often without result,Without seeing dream worldsAnd waking refreshed.
Looking for trouble was the best sedative.
The knife withdraws with a whisper,“Lullaby and goodnight with roses bedight.” The pavement blooms beneath me,Faster with my back pressing the flowers into the gutter.This bed is colder than mine and grower colder,But the world happy-fades and the pain's all right.
I think I will sleep well tonight.  

The El-Car Motel (#NaPoWriMo 12)

The manager has a beard again.The divorce must be final---again.It's been a while since my last stay atthe El-Car Motel,Many days since the inkwell consumed meAnd removed me from my life aloft,To that splendid shithole that gets me,and countless others, off. He passes over the pen and I sign mypen name: Paige Turner.The joke is always lost on him,Like the day-old Doritos wrapped up inhis chin."Room 11, as always," he says."Rita just finished up."Ah, that should give the room a nicevarnish of cum.Although, I could it use and imaginemyself by the sea....In a brine-soaked, hovel of abrothel by the sea.Rita waddles down the path with hertwat in knotsAnd flashes me a corner-bought smile. Her john quickly departs in his ownknot,Hunched in shame, stinking of booze andbile.
But I shouldn't judge.I'll be hunched in booze myself soon,Alternating between keyboard andbottle,Slashing away at the mottle of room11's distractions.There are so many things to take mefrom my work,So many quirks, so much to revolt.So I give into it, for five minutes.I stare at every bolt, every stain, Every sticky puddle I wipe from mychair,Every drop from the ceiling, into myhair. I give in to my revulsion,Sometimes to my supper's end,But once I'm done, once I'm empty,My true purpose can begin.The beer doesn't survive the ink, itbows outAnd wine dances into the picture.Smoke soon follows with deep lakes ofliquor.I move then, slow in body, but in mind, quicker.
My phone rings and rings."Why did I even bring that?" I askthe phone itself.Logic outside fiction has already beenshelved,Along with the Flying Dog, along withthe Andre.I look at my phone, then push it away.God how I love him, but I don't needhim now.I need some more Andre and another wordfor "vow". This is my one thing: thatdestructively wonderful thing we allow ourselves, once in a while.This is the thing that your smile waitsfor, though it may catch your tears.He is all things to me but this. This heaven, this incredible hell.No man excels a flawless moon throughfilthy drapes in the El-Car Motel.I'll see him in the morning,Soon after I see myself: a stranger atthis point,But a stranger who can smoke the hellout of a joint.
When the morning comes with its hammersAnd slams Ra against my door,I pray for an apocalypse.Then I think of him, of his sweet handsand sweet lips, and I curse myself.The night for those thoughts is over.Gone.Not to be pondered upon for a very longtime.Not even if I struggle for prose or forrhyme,I will keep it buried, as I have allthese years,But never forget all I've lived on mynight without fear.
I don't clean the room because the roomcan never be cleaned.Filth breeds like poison ivy in theEl-Car Motel,Oozing, But oozing well, into secret happiness.All that happened during my night willremain with me.(You've had a chunk, not the brunt.)But what comes from it, the stories,the poetry,I dispatch. And while I watch the world devour it,he will watch me with admiration,Perhaps wondering, but never asking,"What is it you do at the El-Car Motel?"Maybe he doesn't care at all.Maybe he already knows.I suppose it doesn't matter, Because he kisses me, welcomes me home,envelops me, ravishes me, makes me feel like words do no more goodthan Rita's dragon-toothed blowjobs.(Or so Bernie Hobbs told me in 2008.Please don't make me elaborate.)
I watch the motel shrink and thinkabout my sins.How lovely they were.How far away and lovely.

The Train's Dawn (#NaPoWriMo 11)

Morning exists in a train whistle,
Far away but nudging me close. 
Roused by the howl and the mimic of the doves.
I see it is not yet light,
No matter what the whistle says.
Back in my twin bed, I feel like a queen,
Stretching beyond the length but never lacking for warmth.
Meanwhile, the train calls again:
"The sun is not risen, but you can be. Chase down the darkness until your shadow is on your tail and the sun is just a second place contender for the day."
It is wise beyond my pre-dawn thoughts,
And I am up for good. 
As the train moves on, the whistle sounds again and again,
Alerting the rise of morning
And the futility of children's beds.

Standard Wild (#NaPoWriMo 10)

At the story's finish,The author's fingers are itchy.Dry ink troubles her.
She won't sleep tonight,Wondering about her workRoaming in the night.
When starlight drenches,It is pliable again,And out of her hands.
Will it be the sameIn the light of a new day?Or has it improved?
Do night's adventuresChange tales the same as authors,Merging under stars?
Reckless and wild,Both author and ink run free.Becoming tales, untold.
She must let it dry,Stop, and let the tale run on. The End is the end.


But there will be moreStories that fetch her to worldsWhere authors are changed.
Worlds of endless words Where wild is the standard,And ink cannot dry.  

#FREE "Rabbits in the Garden" for #Kindle

RABBITS IN THE GARDEN is FREE Today-Friday the 13th on Kindle!! Please download and spread the word!! Also, enjoy a selection from "Rabbits in the Garden" below, but be warned: this is a big selection from the book, in terms of length and plot. 
http://www.amazon.com/Rabbits-in-the-Garden-ebook/dp/B004LZ53L6/
As she filled up the watering can, her eyes rolled over the garden. It was noticeably thirsty from her neglect, but as she was crossing over the cabbage patch, she saw the leaves shaking wildly. Two rabbits burst out from the plants, batting at each other, rolling and tumbling across the garden, but their play quickly turned into much more. She gasped at the rabbits' behavior and tried to pry the orange rabbit off of the blue with her foot, but before she could, Avery noticed two more rabbits rubbing against each other brazenly. She spied a third couple behind them, then a fourth and fifth. Before long, the garden was bustling with bad rabbits: red with yellow, pink with blue. A great rage built inside Avery that felt like a twisting ball of nausea and grief, and it spread throughout her body until she began to shake uncontrollably. She thought her clenched teeth might grind into jagged shards that would spear her gums. She exploded with an animalistic cry that broke the quiet of the garden and when she threw the watering can to the ground, burgundy liquid poured out and seeped into the soil.
 She screamed as she fell to her knees and tried to dig the water out of the ground, and all the while, the rabbits kept doing their filthy deeds, coupling and switching and poisoning the garden with their lust. She swatted at them with her hands open at first, but they quickly clenched. Like balls of iron, her fists mercilessly pummeled the bad rabbits, wriggling and shrieking under her knuckles until they were no more than furry bags of mashed flesh and shattered bone. She sat panting in shock as she stared at the carnage around her, and when she lifted her hands, rivers of blood dripped down her arms and into the sleeves of her dress. The smell of death forced its way into her brain, and her head began to spin until she couldn't hold on any longer. She surrendered to hot, choking heaves of sickness that splashed across the blood soaked patches of raspberries. As she wiped off her mouth, her eyes fearfully turned to the window, expecting to see her mother's horrified expression, but she wasn't there: a small mercy.
 She had to hide what she'd done. As she gathered the corpses into a pile, her mind began rattling off justifications that her heart combated. The rabbits were poisoned, after all, so they were doomed whether she'd killed them or not. On the other hand, it was her fault that they'd been poisoned. She'd brought in the bad water. She'd doomed them to death long before her fists ever touched them. She gathered up the rabbits into her arms, but the matted fur tickled her nose, and when she sneezed, one of the rabbits fell with a smack onto the stone walkway. She bent down to pick it up, but she could only get hold of its ear between two fingers. She hurried around to the cellar door before any more dropped, hooked her foot under one of the door handles, and lifted it open. When the door fell, it bounced heavily with a loud clang that caused Avery to flinch and drop the rabbit hanging between her fingers. Her eyes shot to the window again, but thankfully, it still remained empty. She kicked the limp bunny down the stairs, and it rolled with soft thumps and clicks of bone against the steps. She hurried downstairs to where the rabbit lay twisted, staring up at her with its bulging eyes speckled by broken blood vessels. It looked like it was smiling, but when she picked it up again, the top of its head flipped back and the rabbit lost all expression. The bloody fur had twisted into hard, red knots that poked her arms more than they tickled, and as she darted around the cellar, looking for a place to hide them, her tears rewetted the dried blood.
 The storage closet hadn't been opened in years, mostly because it held all of the things her father had left behind. Neither Faye nor her daughters were too eager to delve back into the sad memories of his abandonment. Avery turned the lock with her pinkie finger and pulled the door open, and after yanking on the pull string and illuminating the closet, she was confronted by pillars of boxes with her father's name written all over them. The closet had a definite smell: musty but slightly sour. As she wove between the pillars, the sour smell grew stronger, and she also realized how big the storage closet actually was; it was more like a storage room. She was aching from the dead weight in her arms and the dust was irritating her eyes, but worst of all was the pain that shot through her foot when she tripped over a bump in the floor. Several of the corpses went flying as Avery fell forward and skidded across the concrete floor. She dusted herself off and started to collect the rabbits. It was then that she realized the bump she'd tripped over was actually some sort of latch. She crouched down and saw the outline of a small door in the floor. She dug her fingernail underneath the latch and it creaked as she flipped it open. She pulled up the door and the sour smell intensified so dramatically that her body spasmed with revulsion, causing her to drop several of the rabbits down into the darkness. Avery's mind was so frenzied that she couldn't discern the most logical course of action, and it didn't help that she was under a time constraint. It wouldn't be long before her mother would return to the window, see that Avery was gone, and start searching the house for her. A sudden clanging sound from the dark room below seized her with panic, and when she dipped her hand into her pocket, she found it regrettably empty.
 "The brass ring," she gasped in horror as she peered down into the darkness.
 She couldn't bear the thought of going down to retrieve it, but even more she couldn't bear the thought of losing the ring Paul had given her. She sat on the edge of the abyss with the sour stench and fear bringing tears to her eyes, but she forced herself to reach down and find the cold iron ladder that would lead her into the staggering darkness. Rung by rung, she descended with her body quaking, forcefully breathing in and out of her mouth to avoid smelling the increasingly putrid odor. When she finally hit the floor, she felt a twang of satisfaction, but the urgency of finding the brass ring overcame it, and she got down on all fours to start the blind search. She felt the squishy, matted bodies of the rabbits she'd dropped, but after several minutes of digging around her, she had no success in finding the ring. In frustration, she stood up and began searching for a light switch, a pull string, anything that would bring more light to her search. When she swung her arms around, she hit several large objects that seemed to be hanging around her. Some were wet, some were rough, and some were very soft, but she paid them no mind. When her hand knocked against something small and metallic attached to a string, she shrieked in joy, grabbed on, and pulled it with a triumphant grin.
 When the light blasted forth, Avery shrank to the floor with a choking scream. They were spinning in the light and casting ghastly shadows across Avery and her rabbits were dozens of people skewered through their midsections by large black hooks. They were swaying back and forth, smacking against each other, but when she pushed the bare bodies away, they only swung at her with more force. She closed her eyes, but she could still see the horrors in her mind: sheared bone between soggy chunks of flesh, tufts of thin hair scattered across dry scalps, and gaping mouths stretched in fright. Avery's senses waged war on her mind. Every disgusting perception bombarded her brain and she couldn't handle it. Her legs buckled and she collapsed, and although her cheek was planted firmly against the blood stained floor, the room continued to spin with gruesome imagery. In the last moments before her vision cut out, Avery saw a glint of comfort lying on the floor next to her. She reached out for the brass ring, but before her fingers could find it, her mind shut down and the world cut to black.

Death of a Cinder Girl (#NaPoWriMo 9)

It was better in the ashes,
Lentils and all, it was easier than silk and lace,
Corsets and carriages.
Filthy water splashes back,
But it does not bite.
Nor does it expect a cinder girl to be a debutante in a day.
It doesn't scream about scuffs from glass slippers
Or pressure new princes into your belly.
A fireplace is no castle,
But who needs a castle,
That which retains its chill and echo in solitude and company alike?
Not that my company is comprised of companions.
Fanatics aren't friends.
I'd rather have chattering mice and birds.
Still, I pick pumpkin seeds out of my hair,
Teased and weaved and wrecked from one dance that never ends.
A cinder girl was murdered that midnight and no one noticed.
Not even I knew of my death until now,
Or my doom:
Privilege without privacy
And no permission to sit beside the fire. 

Sing Again (#NaPoWriMo 7)

I have known great tunes before,
Epic songs to move the soul in ballet and bawdy thrash alike.
I have known the clamor of drums,
The whistle through pipes and reeds
And subtle plucks that become passionate performances.
I have known quiet and riot and raucously removed.
I have known dirges to become celebrations that ride high over hills
And low in the valleys where they echo and stay for ages.
I have known every tune, every pitch, every twist through considerate chords,
As I have known you:
Friend, lover, forgiver of every sour note to escape my lips.
There have been several unsuitable songs there,
But you boast of your luck in hearing them,
No matter the base lyrics or the poor warble.
You sing my praises so well, I forget I am your muse.
My name on your lips is the song of all,
Golden, brazen, sweet, and stinging
As it slices all manner of strings,
Giving way to more beautiful music still.

Acceptance (#NaPoWriMo 8)

Year after long year,
Even the shyest leaves fall
To a fearless end.