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
Thursday 30 October 2008
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
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
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
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
Friday 24 October 2008
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
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
Thursday 23 October 2008
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
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
Friday 17 October 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
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
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
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
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
Wednesday 15 October 2008
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
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
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
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
Tuesday 7 October 2008
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
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
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
Friday 3 October 2008
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
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
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