Silas Thorne's Journal

Opened up the shutters and let the light stream in. If you look you can see words inside the room, arranged into sense-units, feeling for themselves, some tasting bitter, some sweet.
No sense keeping all this stuff hidden any more. What words to come I may not show, but what is here, is here.
Rock on, jazz on, rage on! Strum the guitars and let the bugles blow! Let fall trees fall blood leaves and spring spring shoots shoot forth !

Hi guys! Dropped out of Litnet for a while, but you will be seeing me around a bit more here and then. Missed you all, but knew I'd be back here again somewhere when.

Partly it was the Arabic site thing, partly it was I felt I was online too much at times, and needed to take a break. There was a period of internet cafe usage, but I'm freer to use the internet now, with it in my room. Been travelling around China, and then settling in to my current place, teaching English (even now), ...

Where once we traded breaths
was filed
the spread sheets cleaned and catalogued,
these digits
touching on a tonguetip rest
remembered smiles
but where the smiles were placed
were lost
in an accountance, of a sense.

Your lips part as I enter
the dead end
dead, 'cos I'm wearing my raincoat,
so it won't rain on our parade

thrown caught and heaving over
you ride the quake through
and after shocks, ask me too,
'how was it?'

I say '****ed if I remember.
When you dug your nails in

storm, clouds and showers,
flew right on past me,
right through, and in.
Blow, for a second wind.'

Stems fire brightly
by the banks, where willow leaves-
their weary headhair, runs in streams,
and light runs with them.