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
Wednesday 25 June 2008
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
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
Sunday 22 June 2008
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.
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
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
Friday 20 June 2008
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
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!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
