Silas Thorne's Journal

No longer a fuzzy toy to play with,
black and white morning roadkill,
pretty like sleep with the dew on.
No longer a song in the moonlight
singing the other cats Scarface.

Dead cats sing simple songs
and this one,
from appearances mostly intact,
wanted its invisible owner to see it whole,
and not pushed up bits at the edges
after the wheels of a truck.

No stick big enough.
With cuddly tummy and heavy ...

Dear my hot Japanese ex-classmate,

I lost your number.
I'd be a sheep with bleeters on
because you blur my edges,
and so I had to pull out all the live feeds
and trim the switches.

I never called.
I won't be a howling wolf then, prowling dark places,
since within the flitter-flash, your gaze,
my mind would lose its hinges.



I never called your number, lost it.
There were many too ...

Poetry, what did you do to that woman?
She slapped me hard and left the room
while in your head she misted over, swooning.

I'll kick you in the nuts, you knave!
While you’re sitting in an open horse stance, posing,
I’ll get you right, when you’re not watching,
you'll lie there groaning.

Though on the page you lie there, crooning,
You try that one again...I’ll burn you up.

Dear Lord Vader,

I want some of your force,
the stuff you gave Sylar.
Don't try to pull out,
getting all pretty with Ben and the Ewoks,
floating your smile over the closing credits,
I want to learn to fire people through air
with a flick of my fingers,
before my friends do.

O Cleavage, joy is it to see,
belittling those whose gaze can drop on Thee,
and sometimes, when your owner makes requests,
you have been known to push up over desks,
but Cleavage, take care lest it be forgot,
there is a boundary, which if you pass, are not.