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