Afternoon Sunset

Everybody here is on
valium soundwaves,
hectic blues and musings.
No iced water,
ice will freeze the high.
Only sweet tea will suffice.
Drifting.
Sleep to be understood.
This coma lust has me pinned
to a smile,
has my afternoons in gridlock.
Numb teeth
sink into mellow veins...

@Steven Francis poems 1996

Gulag Requiems prt2

Regret

Regret. I have plenty.
Regret. Close the door.
Wasted a fortune. Regret.
Made myself mad. Regret.

Regret. Throw away my soul.
Regret. Cannot remember tears.
Selfish walls surround this heart. Regret.
Nobodies child. Regret.

Regret. A sealed mouth.
Regret. Poisoned nirvana.
Walk along suicide. Regret.
You get used to Regret...

@Steven Francis poems 1996

The Day I Swallowed Stone

Crawling up a circus wall
like a paper man I rose,
looking down I saw the fall
and wished my grave would close.

The ceiling above my head had gone
clouds they seemed so near,
from a gaping wound where lightbulbs shone
now dripped a crucifix tear.

I walked a million miles that day
on a lonely graffiti street,
all I saw was a seance grey
and beggars on twisted feet.

Life was there I gulped the air
a taste of burning choices,
I floated down no wing nor stair
free from salted voices...

@Steven Francis 1995

Fairground Beat

Jelly feet crowds
tied with crow tongues
as children
squeeze life from mothers hand.
Animal lights shine delighted
frenzy into speed.
Stuffed with candy floss
and hot dogs (hold the mustard).

Stop and start
hair raising wheels
of rollercoaster wilderness.
White knuckles
hide fear,
death in a sandwich
up and down
and around the bezerk.

Starving goldfish
(hold the gold)
won with boomerangs,
bearded coconuts
line the firing squad,
unkempt and quaking
as cola cowboys wank their triggers
for fluffy whatarethoses?
on their gallows.

Nine lives
to a fairground beat,
grinding clicking hearts
and silver bones
to dust.
Stuck to the
toffee apple handrail
the teeth clenched sun
rolls on
in fingernail flashbombs...

@Steven Francis 1997

Stradey Hills

Fifteen blood red iron men
shake a thousand souls
and more,
driven by power
of immortal green
and distant Gower shore.

Sospan fach boils on fire
soldier Dai
will light the spark,
whilst sospan fawr
has burned its last
on Stradey's famous park.

In they marched from corners
of west Wales
and beyond,
to add the
Scarlet anthems
to where treasured hymns belong.

The last game played
victory
but the cat scrams Johnny still,
and baby in the cribs
first words shall be
twenty seven to nil!...

@Steven Francis poems 2008

10.11pm Fri 24th Oct 2008

To Stradey Park

The Last Death Of Me

No memories from sharp edges
shall chisel this wax heart,
or clog these frantic veins.
Peace will find the circus
and flame,
and in the End a wild boy
with carnival binges
will know Silence.
Every devil must beat tantrums
and quiet days be known.

The last pain
a final coffin nail,
the last of the last.
All fever
every bone of trauma
meets its End
come sunny days.
Fury is a frail god
to the emblem of horror,
sometimes there is thunder in mice
and calm.
The unbreakable weak.

No more days of glass
should there be,
or blood whispers.
As sober as graveyards
the boar must find comfort
in a cotton babylon.
In serenity
must the monster find
its bed.

Wild dawns must be forgotten,
angels do not carry
the burden of Sin very well.
Hairy antics bruise their milk
and loaded herbs shatter clarity.
When the bomb is dropped
bad sores will scatter
disappearing into mud,
and riot shall have a new halo...

@Steven Francis poems 2008

Poet

Bearded bard frantically pulling
words from the sky,
rest awhile.
Lay your head on oak pillow
amongst smoking bottles
and empty cigarettes.
Dream a drunkards tale
of butterflies and casanovas,
of sticky children and daisy razorblades
then bathe in bile and roll across a page.

Rock n' roll star
of the nineties,
cast those eyes on
the cocaine pollen of summer flowers.
Watch bees and addicts scrape
under a glowing street light.
A poets pockets always full
of infamous hymns that seem
to be too incredible for mortals.
Stories dressed in rags and disasters,
worn by a flabby wizard weaving spells.

Dusty highway man
in search of black romance,
your heart becomes a wanted jewel
as you climb the stairs to death.
Buried in volcano
rest now gypsy soul,
sleep in a jesters shroud.
Find your place in the Beyond
between bone and stars.

Spider wordsmith with vulgar
thirst for knowledge,
he clings to tainted subject
and magnifies the venom.
Each verse littered with desire
and shot dead with a full stop.
Art in words,
mute music of the Hidden world.
Poet, poet! King of children!
Steel my eye to horrors...

@Steven Francis poems 1997

Rubber Neck Prophet

Doom laden, thrilled,
dumbstruck
on the tarmac.
Ready the skull
for ghouls fever!
Watch as pretty boys become disabled
and sisters turn to riot!
This thing,
the thing like horror born.
Extinguish all etiquette,
sleep late
re live every nightmare.
Something of prayer is hidden,
thy peace is idol to the devil...

@Steven Francis 1998

Theme Stammer (Hand Over Mouth)

None of the blind
can see these ripped lips,
not one of the blind
know I am here.
They don't see
the struggle on my tongue,
they don't see the fear.

None of the deaf
can hear my voice,
not one of them
hear the frustration.
They cannot listen
to the tearing in my mouth
as I try to change the station.

I need water
to quench the flames,
I want a song
so that I may sing.
I pray for patience
to wait for the time
when the itch in my words
don't sting...

@Steven Francis poems 1996

White Arctic In The Attic

It will pass
Frantc child
be calmed.
Let it go
future prince,
in a hurry
this horror
will Fade without fuss.

Slip the past
through bony fingers
little man
kill it quick.
Sing ballads
jelly lips
go to sleep.

Hush those eyes
frayed baby,
grow solace from the fever
pour oil on Love.
Breathe easy
blow a kiss,
raise a smile
to fantastic angels,
rest Heaven on your bed.

Fresh music
in the heart
washes murder
from the spirit,
lay in comfort
tired darling.
Lock monsters
in a drawer
beneath
stiff pastimes
and ingrowing flashbacks.

Head first
into the EverWorld
tiny scamp
close the Door.
Both sides shoot tigers,
Mum and Dad
Love and Hate.

Blindfold
the Calamities
cute flame,
wish them dead.
Stand tall
docile shadow,
hysterical noises
soon fade...

@Steven Francis poems 1997

Ocean In A Jar

There is a cunning on the table,
tiny cancers in a coffin
with leather handbag lips,
so beautiful as they pucker the surface
of the heavy water
atop the desk I made in school.
Knives on flint
souls in a honey pot,
little bullets
spitting back and forth
among shipwrecks and rubber ivy
like lost comets.

Underwater with the blind
are diseases on their way to scabs
looking for crusty silk.
Rockets in china cups
charging and clucking on sugar.

I spy quick moods
un the waters when lights go out,
like shiny hangovers and oils
dissolving in whirlpools,
shards of peace with shifty eyes.
Such artful lords with scaled guises.
Buzzing, buzzing,
buzzing, buzzing.
Murders in the darkness.

@Steven Francis poems 1997

Ocean In A Jar

Drunk Rats in Litter Bins

Snowing broken glass.
Dark rancid alley.
Hungry smiling gutters.
Needle thin junkies screwing corkscrew traps.
Prostitutes smoke like otters.
Swollen light bulbs dripping sweat.
Bloodied veins collapsed.
After shave eyes.
A cardbox letterbox beaten to pulp.

Screaming police lights. Lullaby hell.
Cotton wool teeth, rotten sawdust.
Stone pillow, tombstone kerb.
Paper boat pirates.
Aniseed valium. Pleasure sucking pimps.
Measure death in copper coins.
Barbed wire hair, octopus beard.
Bathe in oil. Chablis birdbath.
Sleeping take away, cold in yesterdays news.

Dine with bickering pigeons.
Puddles filled with rain wine and sober whiskey.
Street life, dead life. Soulless.
Glue sniffing pickpockets wary of ratty belts.
Glow worm lightning, Lsd sunglasses.
Dark cloud, suicide space hoppers.
Frankenstein cigarettes from used tobacco.
Rest at the four poster morgue.

Gay town houses, hungry for liquorice penis.
Swim the river vile.
Atheist belief. Pray to God.
God has left.
Madness. Jigsaw jabber.
Birthday clock grey.
Parade the roads through thorns of tourists.
Misery and pity,
hand in sorry hand...

@Steven Francis 1993

Ghost Eyes

I lost contact with the world tonight
as I rolled my eyes on vain blades,
run this spark a grave.
Prayer ribbons dulled the chimes
of the avalanche iron,
nothing said,
nothing done no more.

Blow hurricanes over the freaks
deafen them with whispers.
Misfits today are not
the asylum dolls of yesterday
because gothic slices of tombstones
have been woven into stylish fashions.
Zombie chic.

I see the world fine tonight
through reflections on a tuned cutlass,
this is no place for the wicked
or the drugged.
Loss of freedom saw to that.
Save the planet
feed the poor,
but I see the real world tonight.

Cancer has eaten the reptiles
and rebels look to artists now
who shine with intense shards
of clutter.
Brief sparks of lucidity
born through desert years.

I see the world just fine tonight
I am on a binge,
on a buzz,
on a roll.
I see the misfits
I watch the art,
I see the world real fine tonight...

@Steven Francis 1999

Flying Song

Every fear
a dead man dream
a snipers kiss
on latino lips.
Childrens happy graffiti
sewn onto ghost legends
by greying kitten whiskers.

Camera blinks
lens filled with murder
sequels are never this good.
Chipped teeth
a poets pearls,
wisdom bleeds from melancholy.

The return of a reaction
exit wounds like graves,
viva la gravola!
A sword slices the veil
truth lets out,
vicious to feline born.

January winds
shotgun the June sun
applaud its attitude.
There was a hole here once
its gone now,
stinking in the underworld.

Little truths
honest as dewdrops,
noble bruises
part of our religion.
Eccentricity is seeing
angels in coffins.

Trust and faith
are what the brave have
tucked into their flabby mouths.
To define angst
scatter the monkey
onto plagues...

@Steven Francis poems 1999

All Things Bugs

Little flesh bombs
how I hate the hair off you!
Nipping at my eyes
sending me flailing like a octopus
at your mad path,
making me fear for milk
and butter.
In the kitchen
on the wall,
under tables
dead in mugs of tea!
Crazy wings chasing your souls
for supper,
putting blasphemy
on gentle lips.
To hell with you vagrants,
let loose the spider...


@Steven Francis poems 2008

The Telephone Voices

The phone stutters.
'Hello? Is ..... there?' A snake cackles.
Silence. Thoughts go hyper.
Finally, 'he's in hospital.
Private of course.' Tic toc.
'Hospi...tal?' A screwdriver tongue licks
fat, clueless lips.
Pause for gold.
'Why hospi...tal?' Eyes like drains
bloody as veins.

Questions marks flood the mouth piece
tumbling down the line.
'The liver sucked a problem.
It kicked balloons and venom.'
Nerves grow wings
in search of beta block traps.
'Liver?' Stirring two plus two equals,
'alcohol! Damned alcohol! Burn it!'
The operators ears turn blue.
Panic attacks jump up and down.

'How bad are the scars and blood?
Has the painting smudged?'
Clouds pass handcuffed in yawns.
'A wind almost sailed his ship
into the grave...'
Suffer in seconds, higher than hope.
'But his heart lives on
like a widow in stone.'
The telephone shines.
And dies...

@steven francis poems 1992

Dried Blood, Cold Flame

Miss Fury
come to my spot on the floor
where I lay still,
and see the shadow of my heart
settle on my phlemg'd breast bone.
Please me Fury,
click those delicate heels
toward that death idle whale before you
and try holding that split second shock forever.
Silence?
Or do you hear the earthly drum of breath
from my jellied pose?
In the wild time netween hope and funeral
I become newborn to a Mother beyond today.
Fury be still.

But come,
see the peace upon my leather mug
and watch as iron falls from my skin.
Here the floorboards are warm,
I breathe easy.
Tailored life,
a tic on this universe beast,
many bloods grow beneath grave and moon,
morbid little rats eternal.

Drag me to the valley of death,
from where I remember my stone lungs
kissed hard the dirty floor.
Cushion this speckled flesh
and hold it in white starched coils
before aunts and friends,
silly looking in their solemn courtesy
take me to my nest of soil and grace.

And 'tho I see you from chipped light
and hear peals of sadness
from chapel rows,
'tis better not that you see me
in my grand pantomime.
Better not that naked eyes
fall upon tail or claw
of the unimaginable Seas.
Fury feel a distant glow
of mortal ribbons,
and fold your tendons
into softer shapes.
We pretty phantoms,
we fat, contented dead
quickly forget our foetal comforts...

@steven francis poems 2008

Candy Closet

One Heaven on the doorstep
two moons in the sky,
three angels on the pavement
four cars passing by.

Five devils on a corner
six dice roll fate,
seven grows fat
into a jellied eight.

Nine in the morning
breakfast by ten,
eleven children hunt
for the twelfth in his den.

Thirteen unlucky cats
chased by fourteen angry dogs,
fifteen silver witches
weaving spells with sixteen frogs.

On the road at seventeen
driving teacups around the bend,
eighteen brings the litter drunks
with hangovers which never end.

Nineteen gothic paintings
in twenty dustybooks,
twenty one talking mirrors,
twenty two hiding crooks.

Soft chocolate coffins
twenty three in a row,
twenty four melting snowmen
waiting eagerly for snow.

Twenty five, twenty six
on and on it sings,
quietly in my mind at night
curious bloody things...

@steven francis poems 1995

In The Middle Of A Corner

I am a roller
rocking on the porch,
a drug crazed celebrity
I am.

I am a strong man
in the grip of a hangover,
I nurse a beer belly
I am weak.

I am a clown
feeding off laughter,
an addict to darkness
I am.

I am a bully
playing sticks and stones,
crying for attention
I am victim.

I am a tourist
looking for God,
wondering where faith would hide
in a city.

I am a prisoner
for sins of my youth,
on the silk of ghosts
I sit...

@steven francis poems 1995

The Champion Land

We are babes
we want drink and drugs,
we want sex
we want groovy songs.
No more gospel
we want what's hip,
stick PC where it belongs.

We want devils
with hangover attitudes,
not angels
with fluffy clarity.
Bring on joyriders
ditch the clowns,
give us licence for our insanity.

Go for broke
with all guns blazing,
give us 100mph
not red lights.
Review the censored
release the damned,
put disco back into fights.

Kick out the sober
God bless bourbon,
sell us heroin style
offt the bone.
Give us a chance
to be actors or junkies,
death to methadone.

Pull us from gutters
save us from real time,
give us Lara Croft
and hooch flavoured pops.
Throw out whistles
mute the chants,
put exclamation marks
in place of full stops...

@steven francis poems 1995

Eden In The Dark

Dark falls the Eden
and swiftly it sails
into my embrace
and out of sight,
for certain there is Nothing
but the frail beauty of death
with its sombre
music style and emptiness.
Look twice
up to the broiling sky
where charm and silence
are as one
and vapours
twist the evening song.
And dark it falls again,
no longer do I drown
in this sleeping breath,
I cast away a dagger heart
as sorrow
holds passion chained...

@steven francis poems 1995

Death Versus Hero

I am a dying man
in a dead world,
and as I lay here
curled amongst medicine and psalms,
veins like a flowered hell,
I watch a tiny hero on film
bring more death.
It never ends.
We all want more Black.
It rocks.

I watch guns and comedy,
men throttled with steel cables
or lanced by stockinged crows.
I will follow soon
to blood, tear and fables,
'tho mine will not dry
but fall with the credits.
I live in hope for a muscled legend...

@Steven Francis poems 2008

Sabre Tooth Sky

Today was not for dying.
No shadow man or beast
gained a drop of blood,
no rigid varnish stained a soul.
Death forgotten in Death,
this day was not for dying.

Rest now in your Lavender bed,
untouched by hooded lights.
Settle like a cwtch
and shake away the peppered bone
that chains us to our sin and sorrow.
The dangerous art of life
left far behind.
Today was not for dying.

Turn from blackening.
The raven has no calling
to your song,
no red in blood or coals
have purchase on your ghost.
Step quickly into Saphire fields,
this day was not for dying.

A greater part of Love
again sheds its mad flesh,
dropping muscled furies like ancors
into a gentle froth.
Smile from your scrolled seat
as serpents and sores are banished
to mortal print.
Death was never near.
Today was not for dying...

@Steven Francis Poems 2008


For my Mother, Susan Francis

Life has never been Lived as full as yours.
There is no End , life Lives on...

There's Not Much Difference Between Ink and Bile

I feel like Cocaine
headbutting tables
like a thrilled chicken.
Life is super behind these eyelids
a real circus.
Holy Land
in the tomb on my shoulders.

Call me Angel
a fountain of Love,
pissing diamond miracles
for dimes and nobodies.
There's no colour here,
no bandit ways to stain my glass.
My heart is pure
my teeth sharp.
In my goodly drunk paradise
heroes are loved
but the worm is King.

Let pass the wolf people
in their search for Hollywood,
with minds cheap
like caramel sunsets.
Vacant gargoyles in a spin!
Come to me through Dirt
and backstreet needles,
paint nothing on your lips.
Save judgement for the sober
and hell for hangovers.

We Mad, the real Mad
follow bull queens
to the altar of Skulls like poisoned dogs
running toward Oblivion.
Drugged, bullied, maimed.
Burning paper walls
to visit Triumph.
People on medicine
always need perversions,
a sister to disaster.
In God we trust,
bury us on Good days...

@Steven Francis Poetry 2008

Tafod I'r Nefoedd

Into the green assault
we go,
beyond all glass machines
and graves.
A giant tongue
studded with eyes and ember
takes the lion home.

Here rise valleys
screamingup toward leopard skies,
lifting out of needle towns,
pulling monsters from the dead.
Great coffins
hold honey comas,
a homely retreat.

Young Colossus,
stand fierce
above the lime wasteland.
Be safe
from war and angry crowds.
Unite the tides,
stone and cloud our strength...

@ Steven Francis Poetry 2008

The Final Day of God

Fair face was caged
like a fingerprint
on the dayiron swatted glass.
When steel went from butterfly
to shark,
and hearts fell as one
into tributes.
But the face sighed like a ballad
when it heard voices of war.
Its cheeks sagged heavy,
the ears howled
and bald lips sipped bullets.
Witness to Love
in shapes of memories and plague...

@Steven Francis Poems 2008

Saline Sunset

Tomorrow I sail into a heavy forest,
and shall learn
what poets seek in life,
the Mysterious Trick
of shadow fire.
And I will be of flame.

For the Ancients
let justice be done in unholy disgrace.
Hang this wretched body
with boiling furies,
lay it down before miserable laws.
Honour the hood and lunette!
Meat machines
all we are.

Devour this bloodied bastard
you paper judge,
God in cannibal skin!
Let this pallid life and rotten bone
be your terrible soup.
Gut me in sleep,
throw my arms to priests
so they may fold them in prayer
and give these legs to children
to skip beyond chains.
But my heart I keep beyond the howl,
for fires of Saints and heroes
will dry my veins.
Parched flesh holds no Sin.

So to fiery crowds
tomorrow I go,
in a perfect pose
for the death obsessed.
Send for hail and thorn,
come see the gallows buckle
under my flabby skull.
My exit,
dying alive!
A blizzard for chapel idols,
owls and gulls be funeral coal...

@Steven Francis Poems 2008

Hardcore Diva

Shape an ego
from rat farthing city lights
and cage it in lament to idle styles.
My dick is such a worn out tool,
waiting for Tennessee Buddahs
and wives with flapping knives.

Wanted by
praise and envy,
obsessed fans
cigarettes
and tired looking prophets.

Tune in to appetite
to find me staring at you
from the mouth of a clownish corpse,
where dormice dare cross the landlord
and legends are born to coked brethren.
Falcons hack at their stoned eyes.

Feed the crooked cat
live rats,
bourbon and humiliation.
Watch its skull escape
like Houdini into freckled days.

Tie me scissors my darling
cut me into shape.
Pornography has me bloated,
a sexy bible blown my boots.
These are drugged visions on a rampage
firing up voodoo.
I cannot lose the blues
to poker playing cowboys.

Save me from
wicked trends
shackled tigers,
tinsel town
and lovers lane.
I am not a God,
I am prey to temptation.

This is hardcore,
this be a crumbling school
where fish mime to radio
and rock stars are born to lightning
on bathroom floors.
Needles bought from Tiffany's
like smoking pistols in their paws,
empty of the graffiti bruise.

Bury martyrs
where the sun shines for funerals,
and take their freedom
to use against addiction.
A holy diva lifts darkness
and fear disappears,
monsters don't live in the day.

Cafe princess
guide me to caffiene
and gold plated belly aches.
Lure me to vanity applause!
Tea from hookah pipes
shouldn't taste so good...

@Steven Francis Poems 2003

Frozen Veins In Sunburnt Park

Khay
hold the ball
pump it up
watch it fall.

Take a bus
to the park
score by the paddling pool
feed the shark.

Khay
sit on swings
back and forth
on sickly things.

The shiny city
is yours tonight,
no escape
calling lights.

On climbing frames
like a monkey,
hang around
handsome junkie.

Khay
go down the slide
a cobbled road
a bumpy ride.

Devils dressed
like Santa Clauses,
feeding addicts
spastic pauses.

Frozen mouths
too tired to bark,
Khay lay down
in Sunburnt Park...

@Steven Francis Poems 1998

Resident in Mind

Tomorrow is delicious hope
but yesterday is caught in my throat.
It will not be swallowed,
like a stubborn bone
it scratches at doors in my mind.

Tsunami hectic brick attack,
difficult moods wail.

I do not know what made yesterday
feel so fine.
What is it I cannot chew or wretch?
Why does it need a memory?
my tongue is knotted
in threads of mad questions.
Lick lips which repeat words,
blood washes the anxious.
An immoral everlasting skulks
behind my wishbone
giving life to days ago.

Sour lithium scares ghosts,
I want funerals to every day...

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

Twin Spines (Serpent Song of Repent)

Again the snake
is at my spine,
I feel fangs behind my eyes
ready to baptize my spirit
in holy perversions.
I am saint when I am hooked
to the toxic.
Beautiful to the last
the last of the beautiful,
angel petals stab my sleep.

Volcanic heart, feral urges,
I shadow queer kings totheir vanities
like a vampire on Artery Street
and bleed them of fat and ego.
Wealthy shine
fortunes for underdogs,
murders for scars.
I repent in suffering
as my devil tongue lashes at sores.

Soul hound baying
among fermenting flowers,
rabid for scented poison
and curious to the universe.
I am one big mass of rattlesnakes
and lambs,
(fury of the dead and dying)
waiting for silence.

Cherubims in pirhana
rest in corals inside my lungs,
ready to strike the snake
and beat its crazes.
Batter dragons
stone the drugged liver.
These bones are dry now
clean of buzzards...

@Steven Francis Poems 2003

Prising With A Splinter

Call to all ends
in a city of euphoria.
I am cunning
and yet guile
could never create utopia,
for our generation died
when our fathers were born.

I will take you
begging on bandaged knees.
Mercy has no place here,
my heart is the shade on graves.
Eyes like dew
on the grass above the maggots.


My fingers reach out
like wilted flowers on cemetery gates,
waiting to hang your soul
on my aged bone.

Twin lives
envy or greed?
Or the blood on a rusted knife.
A noose swings from my moonlit fangs
making victims sulk
with every morbid breath.

Bewate boy!
Death has lost its romance,
lost its patience
and its horny mind.
Where will you go when I arrive?
To paradise?
Or to twisted tantrums
beneath the sea?

Rest in peace,
but rest is already in pieces.
So fold your hands and thank the fathers,
for that circus which awaits
was created by their habits...

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

Skin Mirror

I am..
the claw
tearing insanity from sobriety,
the shine on a smashed glass.

Or am I vanity?
Stalking reflections in a skin mirror,
admiring ghosts in my head.

I am a..
promise
falling from a shabby jesters lips
trying to impress in a cartoon.

Or am I pornography?
Clutching onto a tabloid dignity
in a flesh alley.

I am..
a coffin
yawning from below the footsteps
growing deathly whiskers.

(Roses fall like damned nightmares
from the cancer of mourners above)

I am..
rage,
stoking fires ready for the disco chaos
I have prepared for ghouls.

A masterpiece of victims

I am..
obsession
flowering in a never ending hell,
suffocating slowly in the undergrowth.

I am kitten
I am wolf
I am youth.

I am..
love eternal,
knitting angel feathers around my heart
to reach Elyssium

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

Vase In A Cage

Batter up my puffer fish chops
its time to wield the gin cutlass,
have at you!
Creepy whiskers that crawl on my cheek
drop like soldier ants.

My skin still milky
from the womb,
has youth on its side (just)
as it stretches to hold
the beer ship,
and inky nightmares which
make up my arms.

Vanity cowers among the wrinkles
modesty tied to my tongue.
Good looking
looking to myself,
hole in one in my belly.

Its time to pinch the Adonis
in the mirror,
chop chop you handsome pussy kitten.
Pretty as a hangover
in a sober kind of way.
Gnash like scissors
pass the smile,
lets go chase the lipstick...

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

As Love Makes An Exit

All those playful things
that lovers do
turn to horror films
when lovers go.
Usual senses like
touch and smell
get caught in cobwebs
woven in hell.
Not everything lasts
and like tears on frost,
love disappoints
and its spirit is lost.

Dusk descends
on a lonely coffin,
drained of blood
and long forgotten.
Sometimes theres pain
in what lovers do,
the hurt of leaving
when a lover goes...

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

Grave Fish

Fractured...
The freckled darkness,
a drugged howl splits
its garden in the sky
as rainbows cross black holes,
the hero has arrived
for the love of babies and princesses.
No more mysteries
or melanomas or cancer jacks
frozen to casket beds.
Queue for cure
bow to legends,
there be sympathy in the wilderness of sorrow.
Saviours fight
and martyrs die to keep young things
from sin.

On earth we are bonded,
as helpless as the belly
of a worm,
grounded to graves whilst spirits bounce.
And yet a jewelled space awaits our tomes
our hopes,
a place of eye dolls and idols
where satellites have nver been.
Pretty things don't grow old
or fade
or wish for bombs.
And girls never fall for heroes.

Would grief destroy faith?
Howl again to God to please Him.
Simple people
walking into comas,
cry darling nomad.
Sadness can be such a rage
and this odd world needs emotion
(and villains),
needs passion.
This world wants
both terrorists and lovers to make it
through the silk...

@Steve Francis Poems 2002

Snake Spine (Soul In A Mirror)

Split suicide grin for seasons of terror.
The smiles are born of hurt and deaths
stony eyed philosophers and sharks
shrug their impassive shoulders
at the reaper bird.
Months fly with dragon tongues for wings
but days crawl through undergrowth
swollen with paranoia.
There is no mirror big enough
to capture my reflection,
big as Heaven
tarnished like hell.

Serpents around my spine
excite new addictions
within me.
Under this shroud I call skin
bones tingle like epileptic reptiles,
my penis coils around lust.

There are free deaths
awaiting the brave.
Choose a soul in a mirror
there is no ego like self,
a song of self
a gospel sung of rainbows.
Twist into a pose
break the snake,
turn the snake
throw it to the dangers.
Damnation is closed on sin days.

Feel the wound
made from greed,
spirits fade today.
Happy people never remember
sad ones never die.
Jesus,
kiss me like a hurricane.
And mould my heart
into a symbol without curse...

@Steven Francis Poems 2002

Re Wind

I'm not feeling myself
anymore,
scenes long gone
glow in my scars
and anxiety shreds my patience
should I fail to paint the picture
perfect.

I'm running away
this time,
running scared
of the hatchet season,
the obesity sessions.
Reason has ceased to exist.

I am fraying
blind and uncontrolled
like a posessed Picasso
as I close my eyes
to replay useless images
in this storm I call a mind.

I'm running away
this time,
heading for the exit
of the static prison
where locks are insecurities,
created by a dizzy trauma.

Haunted in a place
I no longer want to be,
hunted but never beaten
by a vandal madness.
I'm getting out
peeling off the layers of
neurotic stains.

I am not rewinding
this time,
not rewinding any time.
Sick of doubt baying for my blood
tired of this juvenile cancer,
sunlight must touch
these bone flowers.
It ends the cactus jive...

@Steven Francis Poems 2001

Curtain Fire

Bye bye never going back
to the fire where once I belonged,
where ghouls lived in silent movies
and blood was the new shade of wrong.

Draw the curtain on a static mind
before darkness arrives in season,
kicking heels, run like rhymes
kill the father and pray for the son.

There was a place where I'd go crazy
trying to rewind scenes in my mind,
but past is past and iron dead
nothing there to love or find.

Clown with tumours touring confusion
valium away the hell,
walk away from the haunted chorus
and crush the once safe shell.

Bye goodbye, this time it ends
no more zombie fat clogs these veins,
I have muted echoes in this head
and stitched up all the pain...

@Steven Francis Poems 2001

Galactica Pathetica

I tremble
down to my last cigarette,
my fingernails
grey at last.
Frail as ash
hurt as a bee sting,
I look for girls
on a radio phone in.

Squeeze me
until someone else knocks the door,
I need all the sex
in the world.
Bitter like lemons
angry as anvils,
cut off these limbs
cool me down.

A celebrity pose
od's on the wall,
put on a face
why don't you?
Be Lara Croft
from the tv screen,
I watch (you)
but i'm unseen.

Purify me
for one minute only,
fan the flame
I become tonight.
Lightning stalker
happy as caffiene,
death on heat
bloody gasoline...

@Steven Francis Poems 1996

Zombie Man (Hope Song for Silent Choirs)

Terrorised and bruised to
utter nothing,
lady divine
barer of souls,
riiped wide open
catching spiders,
fro the silver which
ran down her legs.

What was it?
That secret when stars
flex in the sky.
Cast a light
and throw the kerb away.
Crush the hand
without a mind.

He man filth eater with
storms in his pocket,
you are monster in disgust.
Bile balloons inflate perversion
sick kings should implode.
Raw dog eat bullets.

This hymn is out
for the forever quiet,
choirs with zipped teeth
and strength of Saturn.
Those bullied worse
than a cancer doll.
Live on,
peace will tame
the pulp creatures...

@Steven Francis Poems 1998

Are You Dead, Ted?

Are you grateful
in the grave?
Gentleman madman.
Did two thousand volts
keep you warm?
Or did you shudder
from shock
after the cold?
Victim of hate
schizoid pigeon.
Alone now with suited tendons
and cadaver skin.
Are you sunburnt from
the unforgiving flame?

@Steven Francis Poems 1996

Morgue Lounge

Lost and deaf
in Poisonville,
where startled humpbacked cats
flee from pregnant dogs.
The poor raped
the rich escaped,
one way street
dead end.

Shift between
Cremation Street
and Hooligan Avenue,
its ouija time again.
Beneath a graffiti moon
coffin streetlights
burn naked wallflowers
grinding against brickwork.
Nobody here reads romance.

Chains in the park
fool addicts
into believing only silver shines.
Strange habits trick the dying
snakes draw blood
from wilted bone.
Chaos reigns at the funhouse.

Along Gambling Alley
where honesty lost its step,
dashing vampires
cook pavement artists in tin ovens.
Smells of fat and salt
attract cannibal vagrants
with cider eyes
from their fingerless beds.
Smash the fish
swim like the drowned.

In shadows
of the dead
mourners go on safari,
collecting cobwebs,
chasing poltergeists into chapels.
Nothing is spared
in this lounge,
tiger butterflies bathe
in sin and heartbeat.

Black Hole City
where Christmas never comes
and vulgar canvases run.
Scorpions lay wrapped
in barbed wire
waiting for prayer.
Fall in love with Dracula
honeymoon in the morgue...

@Steven Francis Poems 1997

Endless Machine

Spank my funk
there's footsteps in the fog.
Tonight
someone will rip my shroud
and sex the fury.
There's footsteps in the fog.

Creepy crawly
down you fall-y
there's breath on skin,
flesh like lead.
This night
a ghoul will tempt the ghost,
stripped of jackdaw colour.
There benightmares in the fog.

Stick you
with my iron cross,
this evening
hellfire will come home.
Torches dance like electric eels
there's murder in the fog.

You pose like a chaos angel
pumping up my veins,
but tonight
evil is on your back
Darkness changes in the light,
I see red on black
as you disappear.
Fear the monster of a naked heart...
@Steven Francis Poems 2000

Saints In Fever Temples

Howls are a' calling
the spear spangled alkies
from their mackerel bible fog,
whilst machine gun mantras
baby tarantulas
and Spanish tanned ciders
sell themselves
as cures for hangovers.

Tango pimps of Sodom
give dancing cramps
to the light heeled holiday angels.
Porn flexed romeos
style themselves on videos
of twelve stone heroes,
frostbitten Venus
woos the DJ's.

Chicago slums
serenade the sulking pop stars
who wait in their binges
while the devil coaxes Barbie for prayer.
Praise sugared mud
for blushing bloods
as crocodiles flood
her Soho milk,
snapping at cold turkeys.

No more dead ends come
to peace out gin wailing hooligans
after the buzz is hit.
New Orleans and its coffee casket jazz
is coming down to earth.
The old man's ebony lady
digs junked crazes
king snake places
and sunglow lunged faces.
Cry bullets
kick the H.

Welcome to the wingding
as morning jaundice spills
from drug induced shrapnel wounds,
this flu is for the taking.
Olive skinned
lushed up and loved,
there it goes
it sees and knows,
the magic
behind the dopebone...

@Steven Francis Poems 2000

Bone Beneath Stone

Seek in the wretched darkness
a ghost to fall on,
another life to live
for your place in the heart of thunder
was too much.
Seven years in a bearded pit
beyond hope of sun,
alone save chain and stone.

That infernal black
dressed your skin and corroded vision,
edging closer to the spirit
like a grim wave rolling toward fortune.
Never was sleep so cruel
releasing you from memories eye
into a tomb where minutes clicked like nails,
and evil cowered.

Forgotten son
alone in his grave,
what crime helped smother you
in weeping scabs and hair?
What sin or foolish word displeased
the king to cause such wicked spite?
Child in cursed despair
you knew before all holy scribes
that hell is not bathed in flame
or sweating from lust,
for yours was hell,
crushed in the palm of horror
just below the sounds of joy.

In forgiveness be strength poor man,
then all rage lies exhausted.
And as countless days crawled
toward fading storms,
you felt despite a dungeon sleep
faith would lift you sober from its lair.

Blessed John six centuries on
and still you rise,
as clean as the air of Pembroke
which teased your starving lungs.
Fear never more
hate no longer,
man of peace
flowered from a despicable womb...

@Steven Francis Poems 2008

For John Whithorne,
imprisoned for 7 years in Pembroke Castle Oubliette
and still a source of marvel.

In Visions of Razors and Conquest

We need the vibes
from adoring fans
these crazies are forever.
To the dogged songs
of tombstoned tooth,
to the infamy of the brahmin's kiss.

Fear wil dress thee in goose pimples
ratty shack baby
and comb thy wayward soul
on the cobra boulevard.

Guillotined mouths
have etched twilight in murdered visions
like silhouetted gentlemen,
riches for reggae,
moon pinched man beyond the mirror.
Curious vanities await the breathless
when flamingo suns
writhe in their barbed deaths.

Come dear kettle fish
thy flesh is in need to be razor'd!
Be silent.
Welcome to the underworld,
lipstick will hide
thy agony...

@Steven Francis Poems 1998

Death Trilogy

Intro to Suicide

Bombs rock the night
bruises haunt cemeteries,
but nothing is loud
like a ghost that wails
when the living
scream suicide...
@Steven Francis Poetry 1998


Deff

The End
of audiences and kings,
I weep
at your grainy funeral
heart heavy as a doorstop,
shouting to the Great Whoever
'This is wrong!'

Pinched
but you had to leave
and so you went,
went you did.
Gone now
like you had not been,
left me here
to rust and dust
like cold wild iron...
@Steven Francis Poetry 1998


ShinyBlindEye

I'm bored,
this generation
has me beat.
A murder of crows
haunt the pub,
bats and wolves
ravage the blue sky.
The paper party
of silicone heroes
and vulgar poses
has me looking donward,
has me beat...
@Steven Francis Poetry 1998

welcome

Hi there, welcome to the millionth poetry blog created online. You can read about my interests on the profile page, this is page is where I try to dig up ghosts (in my head) and splatter them like ketchup all over the page. There's no b/s here, I don't pretend to be Larkin or Ginsberg and nor would I wish to be. Im just a humble Welsh writer trying to put reality and guts into some kind of shape. Make yourself a large drink and enjoy!!