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