Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jennifer McCurry Dec 2021
Nation part 1

He was hound dawged  
Mud in his eye  
But red, similar the color of cherries  
His  load  
Delusions of grandeur -carried in a burlap sack  
eclipsed the threshold a Moon before his person  
And foul  
Grunt and whiskeyed breath  
Enough to make a small one dizzy ...
Enough to clear the front of house with only a hint of his mood  
The Sioux boiled beneath his grip  
Mud like lava caked his expression  
The man had seen War  
But not enough  
Not enough  
Only a little..
A promise incomplete  
His War had been a nursery rhyme
Full of..  
Barnyard animals  
****** with anthropomorphism  
Machete held  by pigs paw  
Rebel yells that quacked  
And so he entered the threshold  
(Sanctuary actually)  
Hulk and mass inescapable  
And indescribable in regards to appetite  
(Though I will try)  
As said ..
The Sioux boiled beneath his grip  
Exposing the ancestry beneath his skin Monks hood  
I think ..
Something lovely  
And deadly  
And I certainly feel..  
Jennifer McCurry Dec 2021
A tree

I was once God smacked by a Sunset
Who’s fingertips dripped orange and pinks into the inky tips of evergreens
A master work of feeling
And blue ball empathy

The longing displayed in nature

A supernatural as I gazed onward
And understood


I waltz and dance and tip toe underneath a shine gone spastic
Stars that would scatter all for me
And would shed their light upon a face
Curving lips over a strong chin that held ...

The ever promise of a kiss
The furlong promise of a No

I doubled down on this.

Hot and miss as I danced into the spray ..
on my face and **** and tummy

More I cried for his sunset
Into the ink of my evergreen
Pinks and oranges puddled onto

The tap root of my Forrest
Jennifer McCurry Nov 2021

Dance to graves ..
to Rogers and Waters
And Dens of Uniquity

To moments a capsule
The spread

Poison or living
It does not matter...
but into the marrow
It’s seeping

Into the marrow
Through concubine flesh

Flesh and bones ..
To marrow

A harrowing beat..
by Rogers and Waters
The lamp light still comes pleading

To garnish the cheeks of thin women wearing musk
Men in hats and dark ..

Dance to graves..
rivers among men

Dance to graves at once.
Jennifer McCurry Oct 2021
Self run (Riot)

I walk
6 feet tall
All of me

(I have been told I lead with my ******, it is unintentionally ****** forward if I do. My head is usually in the clouds. I’m assuming my ***** is too. Once I think about it . .. I’m away to something else. Figuratively and literally. I guess If my ****** leads, I soon follow.)

All of me
5 foot 9
And 6 feet tall

My perfume
But at most I’m self aware
At least
I’m oblivious

It wafts around
At 6 feet


(I have been told I look like Debbie Harry, I prefer Chrissy Hynde, but Debbie Harry will do. Especially on those one shoe Sunday morning afters. Even then I douse myself  O! DAY! Perfumed. Pride and all of its bilingual manifestations)

6 feet tall
I’ll take you to Church
O! Faced

(A man once once winked at me and said; Jennifer I’m going to take you to church. He meant a good ****. Or intended a phenomenal one.. regardless, I took him. I usually do. Jennifer the pew.)

Straight up
No inclination
6 feet tall

Jennifer McCurry Sep 2021
Behind Bandana and Cloak

Where it holds value
Like ampoules of placebo
But sugar and water and hope
Driven in
An intoxicating swoosh
****** in, currents
That run down the American dream

A big brawny man with spike and hammer
Pounds determination into steel
With breathe heaving spit
Electrolytes draining from brow
Below the furrow a face the shape
Of white molten mud
Labor belts harmony with his spike

The placebo takes the rhythm of faith
Until the morning grace ....

An affluent nature would give him no title
Only stock in trade
The worth of his back
And it is broad

But where it holds value ..
might and vigorously hoping
And these you know,
Are the important things
What we reach for
Beyond capability

Behind the red fade
Of cotton hand me down things
Before time drops forgotten
From the hems of pockets riddled with holes

Ping and
The mend

In his bounty
Jennifer McCurry Sep 2021
The Stone

I hold it
Hot hot
In my hand
My eyes shoot
In Axis Mundi
Ever opposite
It’s grounding source
However similar
It’s everlong
Time imprinted
Held snug
My eyes
To the stars
Like this diamond
Of Chrystaline
Hot hot
In my hand
My eyes shoot
Im Axis Mundi
Beyond the heat
Axis of Petdition

this old man's tiddlywink, land-locked words,
runted, blunted instruments,
needy for release, the balm of salvation,
woods, neither silvered or exacting,
more a spit stain polish for a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon,
smoothed 'cept for the brute brunted bunting
of christ-crossing railroad tie lines,
all across his roughened terrain'd face,
a black and a white Degas
pen and ink etched illustration
of howling agitation.

the concrete moonscape
racked upon his soul and face,
mapped remembrances of variegated Judas kisses
each left in a pockmarked hidey place,
tired principles bent, bent from sacrificing oneself,
a rockstar burnt offering,
to any deity that promises illusions that time,
can be healed, all its cursed residues & sins sealed,
in locked antechambers, fully furnished rooms,
rentable for perpetuity if so desired,
but irony dictums diktat says you've locked yourself in,
in circular spaces where every angle stab-states:

yo, there are no unpainted corners for escape,
no day of atonement on your petite universe's calendar,
nor a host of worthy words that can e're suffice,
so howling makes perfect sense

inventory the wasted errors accumulated, accentuated,
uncovered by the howling of only "I'd known better,"
his accountants all jolly rip roar laugh,
when you beg them to ******~reduce jail time of
ancient leaden bulletpoints from the taxes future payable,
they profess there is no statue of limitation from any authority's press
for dues owed arising from your own imitations,
they mock me by howling in poe-ing unison,
"nevermore, nevermore...forevermore"

the contradiction of those criss#crossed fine lines,
each pointing in no direction, a trap of inaction,
fie, fie, on the double dealing hand you have dealt yourself
in the game of liar's poker, where all the face cards curse with smiles,
pretend portents portrait paintings of only rosy outcomes,
each a one way sign,  each pointing to a different,
magnetic compass course in a world
where all polarity confused, reversed,
so wayward, the only direction home

before Rembrandt's self-portrait @  Met Musée, he worships,
the painter's hipster jaunty hat pouty-pointy stating,
"what me worry,"
but the cracked crevices, whisper even louder,
"nothing left to lose,"
in the gallery, all stare, misunderstanding why,
why you weep profuse in perfect recognition at the
mirroring witness testifying, from whose pixels you cannot be protected,
each agitated paint pore shouts words of 
"j'accuse, j'accuse"
in a dulcet howling harmony

words lip locked, no exit, traffic jammed inside squirrelly cheeks,
scabs form, mortar and pestle a pus paste of
jumbled sounds and tongued blood,
a delicacy of swoosh and swish spit,
ugly kept behind prison bars of yellowed teeth,
a vile concoction of glorious bile of new combinations,
destined to die unuttered,
the howling all internal, becomes silence,
and yet, here,
here lies buried proof positive,
"even silence finds a tongue,"^
even words, unspoken,
yet, mind-reader read quietly,
permits the howling agitation exorcise and surcease,
rein to escape
inspired by David Hare's  play about Oscar Wilde,
The Judas Kiss

^John Clare (English Poet, 1793 - 1864)

composed April 30 ~ May 15, 2016

this will likely be my last poem for awhile
Next page