A quick, abstract poem regarding the death of Jack Skellington, prior to the days of his regal ascend – honestly, it is painfully unclear, and difficult to understand… please forgive my lack of intelligence.
Perhaps I should make it more clear, and simply write a prose rather than a poem?
Something along the lines of
" Upon being rejected from the French Connection Modelling career, after being informed that STILL, though his skin was so tightly drawn that one would see each and every protruding bone in his body, Jack would have to lose even more to be a member to sport the clothing line – Therefore, Jack was rather buggered, and decided to take a one-way trip to hell through crack-city and Amsterdam's 'Red Light' District…" – Hurrah!
Or perhaps I would write it as the wonderfully ghastly character of Jack Skellington truly deserves…? Who knows?
000
The Living Hill
In the greyness,
And muted haze of a despondent dawn,
A heady brown devoured, the eleventh hour,
Into a thick, vaporous and lifeless auburn.
The curl of a devil's hair sprouts like a diseased willow, twisting from an ever-shrouded sun.
The town belongs to his terrible, grave ridden kin, a valley of cat black and eye socket ochre: city of callous shades.
Broken in, triangle, squares, of homes where Lucifer relishes an elated spasm, the conceited pleasure of pillage spent.
Atop a dull tendril, a man, famished, lays sprawled, his gaunt, starved frame possessing the character from both the spider daddy, spindled legs trapped beneath glass, liquor saturating stiff ankles;
And the overlooking child, teeth curled back into a malicious grin, baring sadistic ivory, into the entrapping glass encasement.
Ashen skin is laced, broken, scarcely coveting networks of soft tissue and bloodied organ beneath.
Through this crisp wrapping, his eyes are the fundamental enigma in the demon towns' curiosity,
Eerie in their fixed sightlessness, chilling…so very fascinating in their glassy fatigue.
The air about his fading carcass houses his desired coffee-hue, coco, a spice he celebrated days before his heart ceased its resolve.
A delectable richness curdles upon his indigo lips, awaiting a violet-pink tongue, to lash away the steel-can copper sweetness.
He was never alive. A silent birth.
The grey spaniel beside this enigma wails into a crisp, paper moon, nose inclining desolately into the limp muscles of his master, tiny jaw snapping at the gluttonous grave worms.
Worms gorge on swollen bowels, burst with a sodden pop, and black birds pick those fascinating eyes from the black sockets in which they are set,
A wiry and elegant form is lifting from its plaguing nightmares, from black tar pools, rainbows playing upon a stained glass surface;
Dripping its dense coffee bean glories,
From the skeleton grin,
Of skeleton Jack,
the Pumpkin king.
