Silas Thorne's Journal

My friend said something
about poetry
‘it was words singing’, something like
‘emotive association’,

but that was a glance of cleavage past,

a smile and fiddle of sandal,
the way

her golden skin
shined with sweat till
it dropped,

right in the dark valley
of her frilly green
and orange dress,

cool and
open-topped,
as if to let the air in
for a slow ...

Kept close in and at its chest, small hands cupped,
that ghost popped in, a door guest.
It tricks n treats in sheets best.

This tongue is not a mirror, it is full

of Frost, the great world-ender.

Let warmth melt sharp points kinder.

1

and they that is in the breakfast
say I have eaten this just and delicious icebox
which you were, probably were, were
saving
the so sweet so cold plums for
to forgive me.

2.

and so, the ‘which were sweet’,
I have just eaten you for breakfast
saving, that is, probably, the so cold plums
and ‘this were delicious’ icebox they were in
to say ‘forgive me’


3

...

This is the boy that Jack built.

This is the blood that pumps in the chest of the heart of the boy that Jack built.


This is the skin made for healing fast
That covers a mind that was made to last,
Which severs connection with death and the past,
Containing an empire rich and vast,
That holds the plans that build the boy that Jack built.