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