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