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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
Life, as a pseudonym,
Drags its shadow's shadow, which snarls
Itself around traffic cones and
Streetlamps, tearing at its skin
With deliberate intimacy
To alarm light witnessed
Only through strained peripheral vision.
A lace-stitched veil
Slips through sidewalk cracks,
Unisolated windows,
Cataract smooth eyes.
The flesh of the matter invades
Such as the Red Death
In living color--Vibrant
Cadavers speak the language of Love:
Mortality;
It slides over possessive nouns, sticky
As salivation,
Push and rattle and harbor themselves against
Warm, wet cavities eroded
In the backside of actualities
Sweet Tooth.
Authentic miasma, honest illness.
Any footprints discarded in covers of dust
In which Fear has been recognized
Yield into thoughts by persuasion
Of waves.
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
How lovely, isn't
It, to have an 'off' switch, shotty wiring
And all,
And a presence lined up to ****?
They are always there
To cauterize the wounds of emotional castration
Without desire to examine
The blood pattern forensics,
Chalking the splatter up
To an affinity towards Jackson Polluck.
Tears are to the meek
As injury is to the bold,
Chastity is to pureness
As promiscuity is to curiosity.
And what
Supplemented activity relates to the character
Defect of an over-eager search for validation?
How surreal a menagerie constructed from
Syringes full of sunshine.
Currency crusted by blood in place of worth,
Hopeful scribbles of the pale and placid carrying
Small flecks of over packed bags under the eye
Can seem when sunlight filters through rose colored lenses;
How frighteningly apparent
Connect-the-dot freckles and
Spasms of the left cheek and
Teddy bear smiles and
Xylophone ribs and
Bits of skin ghosted from lips become
When refracted by a Narcissus pond—
How I m p o r t a n t,
How appropriate these sentiments:
Perfect companions for the rolled-up-carpet's journey
Of finding permanence along river bottom
Set into the silt and framed with waving algae:
A'voir, piggyback consistencies,
Meet oblivion in shreds
Blown out the back end of the skull
In the instant chapped lip worshiper meets collarbone shrine.
Such ready to leech services are no longer
A necessity
In the four hours of chemically enhanced rawness
Stuffed with bile and bruise and suck and lie
Hollowed of meaning,
Save for the proverbial cholesterol of hope clogged in pores.
But I awake in numbness,
Cold and invalid,
With my head pressed on Doubt's chest
And my fingers knotting in its own
Begging to be warm again.
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2013
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
I
I came-
The world tasting
Like raspberry candy,
Our orb a snowglobe of which to
Shake up.
II
I saw
Lightening skies,
Dawn breaking over roofs-
I sighed, inhaling the beauty
Today.
III
I conquered
Worlds with my pen!
Filling pages with ink;
Filling minds with words that speak
Of tomorrow.
"Vini Vidi Vici"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
There is a glare of stray sunlight
daring to reverberate
through spiderwebbed glass I haven't
found energy to fix
in the span of four years.
It is too much of a mirror,
too tangible a thought,
to make new.
It's lithe fingers, thin and bony,
and mockingly bright,
steal over embossed cardstock that arrives, like clockwork,
in deepest sympathy.
And a thornless bouquet of pastels laden with
Babies Breath
only draws on blood long lost;
nobody seems to comprehend such an allegory,
or lack there of,
so it can't be carried
over the steps.
"Bloodless On Mother's Day"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
My Love
It's gaping maw insatiable,
Crawls trembling toward lurid
Sunlight.
It is a bottom feeder;
An aphorism for suppressed passion.
That amorphous wretch:
Refusal to cease equating
Suffering and nonsense,
To love and the masquerade-
I shiver at the thought.
"My Love"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
I have been at a loss for cumbersome syllables
And dislocated octaves,
Which tumble in lazy metaphors from lips
Smeared with cheap makeup in declarative shades
Of fire engine spectacles, muddy rouge,
Polluted sunset pink,
To mask a cadaver's stitches, preventing
My Heart's restless peaks from bursting forth
Into senselessness.
Where have cognitive examinations flown
Off to, cradling air with hollow bones-
With the flowers, or the cowboys.
Lucidity snatches at April's
Lionlamb air;
I catch falling words on your tongue, like
Raindrops.
Strip my world, proverbial paint thinner
Peeling pseudo-realistic wallpaper
In sunburn fakes,
Of all falsities I've shacked my wrists with.
Paint over my
Red crayon scrawled morale
With You.
"Saint"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
Here I am: a product of coffee shop
bricks and apparition footsteps-freakishly
paradoxical, hungrily swallowing placebos
disguised as Penicillin.
I harbor words deep into my hingeless ribcage
keep their tangled veins behind my
lovestained, hatchet hacked Heart;
They cannot be silenced.
Who needs to know them anyways?
They are brittle cattle skulls left in
desert sun, elderly faces stare
back at me, cradled in my eye sockets where
they should not belong.
Puppetry: I am a marionette on semicolon strings
curled around their blithe and bony fingers
which stroke the dimensions of my brain with pseudo-malice,
fingernails dug into white matter,
the right hemisphere's wounded meat. A ghost of past;
inkstains still dripping like oil off
severed whale bones hung to dry.
My sickly verses maintain their steady cancer.
Seeds I've consumed in hopes of daisies
made me a deafmute Persephone, whom
devours youth like Heroin. Unashamed.
"To A Closed Mind"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
A demon, you say? A boy with blank
eye sockets and lips of fire-restless
words tumble from his flower of a mouth;
I think Ashbery talked about this in some
helium light manner, and Blake in his
heavy, fleshy way.
See, all the poets warned me
but I used no discretion:
Split up the middle, I ate every seed and became
Persephone. I drank blood oaths,
the sun feeling more empty with each sip-
My tongue flashed wetly across Heaven.
A spectre without punctuation, blue and frozen
in half dead thought-light pours down
through the grave-
the dirt was not packed down tightly as hoped.
On the streets, we blush, squawking awkwardly
of trite matters in public like a mask we take
off in the hours the sky is made of charcoal.
I will shine a dull brass if you will be
Fenrir; promise to devour my small sliver
of daylight? Substitute words for alcohol, I
haven't eaten in days: preoccupation
Chasing Ghosts.
"On Fenrir"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
I wish they taught more about
Heartbreak in English class;
That I would see your face
In stormclouds, when
Bronze from the sunset scribbles
Our names in the sky.
It is happening every day.
I am no prize
In my Rossington-Collins band teeshirt
And deliberately torn jeans,
Sitting on the end of the street-
The place where horizon brush strokes
Abruptly end.
"Quiet"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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Jenna-Nichole Conrad Poem
Silk scarved words; silver lined apocalypse-
A distant stars regret will not ever
Surmount rash amounts of emotion, this
Disgusting leak of Heart, preyed on. Never
To match sunstroked day breaking; wint'ry
Fragments protrude strangely from corpse smiles
Which speak speak drifting incantations with me,
A deaf mute, caged by the shine of your eyes.
Traversing a circle of little Death,
A cycle of red and blues: cardiac
Arrest of the sweetest sortings; now to mesh
Touch with sultry glances that counteract
Vocal chords on the offensive. Nothing
Beyond other's whispers, not worth hearing.
"Silver Lining"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
(Disclaimer: I could not find a correct, per-se, form to put this under. The rhyme scheme and syllable counting match Shakespearean Sonnets, but I would consider this more of a 'Free Verse' Sonnet. As there was no proper category for me to submit this under, and I do not want readers to believe I am submitting wrong or falsely promoting my work.)
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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