A Death Mask

Often I lay with frog spawn eyes
staring at balls of space;
a hammered tattooed pig hulk
in ruffled bedclothes,
sunshine billowing
the silence,
posing, me dead to world.
An overdosed globule
catching bats
with granite cladded mouth,
my tongue tolling
for soft dew
and guillotine hymns.
I play dead before regal mourning begins in earnest,
a wick for the spirit into oils
of rigor mortis -
until air falls back into my lungs
and I suck,
a pull on the death
that keeps me alive...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Cold Orb In Lycan Skies

The stagnant pearl is in the air,
I see the tumult of rage and sorrow
rise onto winds from shell shocked backs;
half a planet awake tonight,
sober as mists devour hell plagues,
grim fortune lurks beneath heavy coils.
This is night.
The scabbard of Life!
Death has no rule over temperance.
Forward into solace
diseased claw with infernal nails,
songs of black
cast into a fierce cowl.

White soul boiling in its broth,
mountains jostle for new horizons
as eagles bring new scenes.
We tossing twisting,
ever shifting flecks of pulse
soar under moon and star
like tiny ogres roasting swans.
Lethal barbs scar not
whilst poison suffocates in smoke,
the landscapes love and mourn us.
Dashing swords skewer fat wrecks,
relentless headbut of the horns.

It skids politely in the sky
that subtle muse,
crown of ice;
save us from carcass
skull tapped endings.
Temple of the timeless
honest mask of the devil'd night,
guide our shallow pinpricks
as we turn in our deaths.
A stable hope
reminding the godless they are not alone,
omnipresent mega Amen,
root of proof that the poor prosper...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

The Sour Storms

Weak is the canopy which holds
soul and organs,
prey to waves of centuries -
knuckled by disease and dogs,
a fragile barrier
broken in earnest.

Like pulpy dolls we die -
crushed, stabbed,
ripped, ravished,
herded into cancerous bowels
as dainty frames collapse into waste.

Every step through this mortal soup
open to a scissor'd wake
whilst sickly shoals swell
within the kidneys,
curried in fermenting grave wax.

Venom lurks between heartbeats
waiting to strike at ticking bulbs
with grim deathly force,
delivering bubonic berry tumours
to every grain of breath.

Friends of Death -
growing en masse against muscle blankets
turning each frond vulgar
from scabs and mucas,
a painters palette
of grisly sugared spawn.

Anvils taking liberties with paper
as razors overcome the lillies;
more ripened bells for hell
crushed under cancers,
fleeced by melanoma -
young dead
baubels of infection.

The gruesome call of misery
rings over heaving skin
and subtle blood stars settle amongst
iron weighted freckles.
Scream at delicate defences
while anguish unfolds
wreaking villanous ends in matted pores...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Marching Drum of the Chambers

In here
on the other side of the phlegm coils
fresh air is stalled,
buffered by isolation
and clipped on sterile steel.
Sanctuary of the horned
in pretty gulags,
severed from beating sun,
kept beyond the reach of nature.
No sand to swallow heels
or rivers to speak of,
forget estuaries and rugged coasts
here lies dead ends.
No tree bark to scuff
the finger pads,
no dew on webby toes.
Brain lost in hazy halls of solitude
where hair is all that grows;
dreams and breath,
deserved of nothing more
in a dungeon sink hole...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

The A to Z Of Light

Death is always on my shoulder
I could not lose the page -

the offering of
a diamond lined silk coffin
complete with air holes
and beer mat
is with me always

every sober minute
all of time
morbid but serene...

@Steven Francis 2009

We Are Dead

We walk dead
we look dead -

to sequined eyes
and spinning circus brains
we are silver chains on doom.

We talk dead
we smoke dead -

young flowers wilt
at our whims,
we brazen killers
pureed in candy sauce.

We eat dead
we play dead -

simmering silence
at the news of the day,
cold to events
and cherry red love.

We happy dead
we happy dead
we happy
we...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Taken from 'The Angina Engine'

I See Demons When I Wretch

Behind creased eyelids
deformity staggers
while I try to hurl my offensive guts
into clean air.
The rictus grinning ogres
balloon faced evil jesters
and horned babies
all lurk within my cortex
as I screw my intestines into curried knots.
They line the inside of my dome
in a miserable parade,
chittering in silence like wild chimps
while my tongue curdles toxins
and whisks bile.
Every cough brings corpses
to the haze,
little tufts of morbid delight
that hang on my internal canvas
like coal on lace.
I heave foam,
straining vocal chords
pulling muscles,
seeing terrible faces in the dark...

@ Steven Francis poems 2009

Sunrise Before Oak Tan

Steady the reigns of death
so that I may lay still upon
the deck which takes me to my garden.
The busy minute that marks forever
that until now
Id hoped I was forgotten.
The sun at breakfast
harbour shell muscle smells,
cockles in mud
the calling of crows to roost.
They go on and onward
yet so limited their audience.

Hoodwinked by simple things
like locking doors or lapping froth,
I had missed the trick;
my eye fixed on the bounce
not the ball.
Birth and death
upon us all in heavy drifts
but silent in their sting.
The way of living
not always balanced to how we expire
because the core of Man
runs deep beneath divine waves...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Welcome The Dear Ghouls

Beneath cream complexion
and tomato spiked lips
lurk the ghouls

and lurk is right
for we wait amongst disease
a deathly lounge,
and we is right
because I am ghoul.

The lure
of cobwebs and sulphur
of carcass and tomb,
it is a beautiful thing
bizarre and macabre

and beautiful is right
for we delight
in skewered eyelids.
Grand messy sloppy
death beds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Horror Unfolds As Cartoon Toy Looks On

As vegitarian boy
turns into a murderous superbeast
shivering between slobber,
the happy faces on soft toys remain unchanged;
frozen in a merry stare
watching kindness curdle
and morph into a twisted wolf.

Laughter and Rage
bouncing off each others mask,
running on doom
across foreign maps
tilting cages filled with
iron and glass balls,
spilling them over natures Order.

Rage takes over beast
but comedy still quivers
on the toys smiling head,
even as calm is smashed by howls.
Hatred in fun's domain
laughter on cruel shores;
both wild in their own
frantic barebacked way,
shunning fragile shells...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Wailing News From Tattoo Guns

A cat scratches
where once she slept,
chewing copper bags for luxuries
and minted vermin.
Danger never has a minute
and as knives and rifles feed or kill
with equal calm
reflections will always look better
in print than screams in a bathroom mirror.
A cave filled with roses
has no light,
theres no forgiveness in addiction.
The cat walks alongside a prophet
on bloody tracks;
there are no new stories
or exciting new news,
death is welcomed once again...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Cuttlefish Hour (The Faint Skull)

Born of grim days;
temples of doubt in the grain,
little stony beats
winding in breath like an octopus
groping for delinquent fry.
Cotton clogs the air
and panic brings to life
the final minutes of long years.
Clock hands become triggers
never ending swipes at the soul.
The inward eye once filled with corn and bottle
now looks on scenes of Golgotha,
searching for the might
of recovery in snippets of terrible noise.
Silence smash the hours to pulp,
madness,
raise your magic in bony fired deserts.

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Tea Creatures for the Piss Monastery

Goddamned A.A.
hell to its bubble packaged rules!
Body slam those motherf**kers
into the bastard sand,
hail calamity on that son of a bitch A.A.
and screw its kwm ba ya.
Dear Zeus stab its cotton shillings
with pillars of flaming bourbon,
blend their bile ridden message
with gin on ice.
Goddamned A.A.
Let me see you lift tea
as gracefully and honestly
as I lift a beer,
Goddamned A.A.
cream death camps for the pickled crazies...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Lips Whistling Between Mouthfuls

Caretaker
God of all;
from a mountain top
table top between vinegar and tombs,
shepard of Light
God of flesh
soul engine.
In amongst
cotton swabs and tears
Love ricochets,
sending apes into pandemonium
stirring granite.
Lord above mortals
watching from a holy turret
as evil tries to maim,
to disfigure Life
with cruel knuckles.
Raw God
Lover over all
place before us soft fire
to keep wolves from plotting
in darkness.
See all
everything to hand,
all knots in order,
immortal sinewy control.
We the feeble
living under a milky canopy
fighting for breath
until angels give us lungs
to smoke dry.
God is all
and all to God,
fingers crooked in prayer
while havoc claws at elbows.
Little is the suffering of Man
and great is Love
beyond skin and judgement...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Boys At Play With Dark Undertones

Is it cheeky
to want a sweetie?
All the gang love a sweetie,
is it cheeky?
Is it sweetly sickly cheeky
that all the gang
love a sweetie?
Its a tricky manouvre
the boys pop like a hoover,
is it cheeky
for a fizzy sweetie?
Is the fizzy
in the cheeky sweetie
what makes the boys sickly?
Its a gothic stunt
on dizzy hunts,
is a sweetie that is cheeky
making the greedy gang sickly?
It is cheeky
to take a sweetie
and drop from the fizzy...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Horizon Man (Of Ghost)

Long dead are the pencil
and matchbox,
the letter to a distant sweetheart,
a velvet kiss on paper
cross cross cross.
No more flagons of ale
jerk along cobbled stone,
ready to ignite a summer Sunday.
Television killed poetry
and turned legs into arms,
man only needs fingers in this wired age.
Skin becoming stranger to bone,
medieval man would run in terror
from the silicon devils
we birth in videogames and tubes today;
it has all turned
from hymn to planet steel.
And harsh rum sodden hours
have melted into creamy parcels,
now everything ends in seconds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

A New Land for Early Morning (Alainn Tir)

Along bearded roads we barrel
past sunset rusted chippys
and stale graffiti;
past the drunkards lair,
heading toward the sea at 2am
where graves are not as quiet,
or earth as thick.
Buzzards hand us to gulls
as roads give way to waves,
and a orange glow of the ferry port
tilts us closer to heather fringes.
Over mighty, boiling water
a fearsome soup,
we sail on the edges of dawn,
seduced by faithful promises
only Eire could give wing.
Land of bailead!
Such potent beauty to assault
the human frame,
so genorous a land to strangers.

God speed the engines
that shudder under feet
like a Kraken itself taking us
across the leather smacked seas;
pulling toward rising shores
with welcome bosom and froth.
Oh starry Gaelic soil,
a honeycomb for bards
and fitting bed for heroes,
our ship approaches.
The water shrugs off its black skin
and trails sink behind dawn;
beyond gangplank into hearts alive
where wakes rejoice unfazed by limit...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Nocturnal Return

The fire in the seed of sleep
burns bright while spitting black,
and in its heart a stranger lurks
laceration winds attack.

Close weary eyes and visit hell
a bogeyman guides baby men,
razors slice the sleeping lungs
in death all nightmares end...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

You Call Me Murders, I Call You Hell

Conjoined souls in a lilly wraith
beating rumpuses on the pillow,
I love your hate
you love my cruelty,
where will this fury lead?
This clash of heads
beneath a wilting bed,
stubborn, stark raving Love.

Its all good on Devils Isle;
you gartered heron
stabbing on shores of my greasy waist
while hammers smack fat asses.
Pick and tear each others dins
like cannibals flirting
in fish guts.
Weak for danger
always hunting lies.

Peace be damned,
I hate, you hate
sometimes there is calm.
You burn, I burn
sometimes we see coal.
Aprons at dawn,
there are no arrows in our scorpion.
This no good Love jargon
abandon before its gills dry out.

Dance to cheesegraters
until our thighs fall off,
we gun each other
like howling bandits in a coffee storm.
You beat me
I nail you,
our beats and nails fill tender kidneys
with nasty gentle motions
and we dance to age old quarrels.
We bite, stab and chew
but strip away the dark veneer
and there is only us.
We two, fighting as one for this Love...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Following My Bones To The Angel Yard Without Stone Or Rib

The weight of darkness drags good men down
into paper paradise promised by snakes;
there are no gunshots on death row
or lillies for clean heroes.
We want our knees to lead us to the garden,
we follow our hearts into coal showers
and crush prayer into whisper.
Wheels drive us mad into shaved pits
the sheppards have no call in this,
our path on rugged shores.
Lullabies may tip us into trenches
and cut the sinewy cord
but all forces lead to bony palms,
savage the dreams of the dead.
Follow passion or destruction,
abstinence or greed,
we the people
relics and shells...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Mortuaries And Cream

Shake nightmares from cloves of sleep,
unchain the eyes
and smother cogs in cotton.
Let the scalpel brush its tinny finger
over mulched pages of puzzles,
grief always played at dead ends.
Lost in sewers
a swan drifts toward the carvery,
to jelly and drugs,
slopping inside a tattooed shell.
Twist toe tags into furry coils of wheat,
there lies less than a soul
surrounded by ivory,
gone to find honey for its wounds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

A Poet's Thoughts

I always thought the human spirit was pretty tough and resilient but show it stockings and high heels and all reservations goes to rat shit..thats power for you...stockings and high heels..of course the Arthurian figure (to extend this verbiage) must look like Angie Jolie because if you look like Plain Jane then all power goes to buggery (and not in a good way)

Poet Steven Francis

All Motion Toward Death

In fleeting instant
calamity calls with fierce stamps
and lights shine
on shocks of something dead.
A fragile glass sliver
for the pew;
each one of us feel the quarrel waves
and tick them off with candy bows,
only to be stunned from vibrations
when bulbs crash on
starched froth shores.

We bark from brimstone lips
but webs in our heart,
those tentacles which cradle Love
and peck at spite,
make nodding to death easy.
Peeled marble skin
shed quietly onto katana roads,
life eager always for long haired tombs.
Arteries stretched over sunglasses
gather balls of ash
like fishnet lanterns on red globes.

Knuckles aim for undertakers
while hymns stretch greying whiskers
as queues clutter stained windows,
hail to laments hanging on sober air.
Final songs on tinted coma
which toss mortal fish into grass fists,
and weave recent ghosts
into cold coils of ocean.
Settle into infinite arms
while poets stitch stone blessings
over quiet soil.

No ruffled agonies will upon
the eyelids lay,
and peace will honey itself
to liberated mysteries.
All highways beyond touch
lead into Sanctuary;
seldom where rats and prophets
congregate in sympathy,
always for thirst of pearl ballads.
Static pose draped over
blood thrones.

Grim dolls walk toward graves
without fanfare,
in silence over the underground pools.
Resurrection into butter lands
turn muscle into chamomile oil.
Fear no demon and seek no silver lane,
for our steps into eternity
shall uncover fantastic horizons,
and seeds of whatever drives
the soul of Man
will settle on gentle plains...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Bad Blood Sessions

Roads to wild instincts
lead to Love of wasted brains
and diamond coated cathetars.
The princes of bile
charge into churches of desolation,
putting souls to boil,
pretty ghouls for parties.

Lizards parade their spines
while lions stretch death
along zebra throats;
honeycomb crypts
for the hellish bound.
Animals all,
all talon'd wizards,
skill of beasts
panic of the murder herds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Mother Earth for Digital

Love has no fathom
or limits,
nothing would help betray
the love of eggs
wrapped by Giants
and pounded with stone of age.
There is no cure
nor bite for fish,
cotton soaks venom in tails
of sunshine,
hail memory to ginseng bone.

Flat roofs smash embryos
into adulthood,
concrete seed for wild ages,
blooming in the turret sand
where plastic soldiers dare taunt
the wolf and kneel it to its cushion.
Mother arms hold dear blood
close to spiked bark
as cloven leaves fall to order.
Cane devils, candy lambs
a feast of olives to babes.

Daggers sail onto upright palms
waiting for relief from horror,
but wayward saints have no cunning
in wrath of wounds
and comfort is beyond fire.
No mother strips for bombs
or lure lust on heels,
but if torch happened on skin
the ghost would fan the chain
and tears soil cribs.

Moon flail teeth
until devils no longer have passport
between the dials,
there are no roots in stockinged sheaths.
Hang heads like vagabonds
to those kissing herons,
a raised leg for audience.
Love mother
mother I love for eagles,
no skull carved of emblems.
All country folds for cobras...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Colony of Beaten

Worm lives inside
the liver of heroes,
splashing like a porcupine
in trifle grease.
Illuminate fatal sun
inside;
choices made by merry go rounds.
His nest made of dandelion fangs
sits like an ink stain
in cupped hands,
it never lets rest get away.
Or murder.

The Worm is sleeve to inspiration,
spindly legged things;
he loves herds and applause.
He loves panic music
which take him to the heart.
The sulpherous bile
is not always warm;
when madmen forget to think
it curdles.
Worm is not a victim,
those coyote tattoos
mark him well against curled mouths.

On through muscle,
those slabs thirsty for glory
but quick to be sliced on vanity;
on through lungs
where colonies of scruffy fish
bicker amongst rivulets of filth.
Onward slides Worm
on a mission of mechanics;
to solder ambition to the heel
and plant fear in the marrow.
Flesh makes grand fire
when candles heat the skull.

There are maps of neon Chaos
nailed inside the sloppy brain,
and Worm devours them
before hairy tics can lose Order
in pockets of the unconscience.
Worm knows the sin of Man
more than Man knows his own lips;
bloated lips cannot be trusted,
too much tricks gel in sugar
and he must stun giddy soldiers
before Lust arrives
to sow septic cataracts.

Lights along the spine
warn of danger,
nerves tuned to different waves,
the seas beneath the earth.
And this is wher Worm is master;
a streak of Life
wallowing in the fat of Man.
Bald minnow soothing soul and engine
of leviathans,
until dust is ripe for feeding.
Sandstone melanomas amongst bracken
where invertebrae has ministry...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

The Grave Mischief Of Lady Betty

Bloodthirsty Bet what have you done?
The stranger dead
your only son.

Taught him money was warm as gin,
and greed it was
that put a blade in him.

Time passed slowly in Roscommon gaol,
fear the scaffold's grip
and hemp pigtail.

She was not alone on her final night,
and all condemned
cursed the morning light.

On the chosen day no hangman came,
but Death was eager
so upped its game.

As Bet stepped onto the wooden cloud
she removed the noose
and said aloud.

'Spare my neck and I'll hang the others!'
And so it was,
she swung her convict brothers.

No souls it seemed could quench fair Bet,
the Irish bloodhound
who slipped her net...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Antlers Cradle A Cross

That treacle genie
my wildflower,
passion beyond all perversions,
steer my soul into gentle wars
and clean the scabs I gather
from your havoc.
No shipwrecks lurk within those
jelly green waters,
no shark to savage sleep.
King of the hunt
with a morpheous tipped arrow,
lay me down in mystic tar...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

A Poet's Path

Eveyone is chipped from the womb to explore different things in Life. What would surely kill one person is merely a flesh wound to somebody else.
Explorers like Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Jaques Cousteux seek the planets crusts and bile, probing strange and dangerous new routes.
Composers like Mozart and Handel search the wind, looking for beautiful whispers from Gods in the clouds.
And we poets and writers travel to those most lethal and alluring of places, the mind and soul of Man, where survival depends not on compasses or violin strings but on guile and the ability to con.

@ Steven Francis 23rd May 2009

Hedonist & Sasquatch

May weather brings lambs
to daisy hems,
sunshine twists on bracelets
like pond skaters skipping on trout.
Afternoon ice cream
jellybeans on cheeks,
there is no cauldron more glorious or alive
than a river in Spring gloss.
Streak of light
putting ghosts in cribs
and nudging shadow into the mouth
of Venus.

Frosted glasses of plum wine
spill over hampers of mutton and berries,
as damsels in undress grope in barns
like excited lizards on railway sleepers.
Neither bully nor Death
has a page in this scene;
jam scones on a sunday teatime
swat the hammerheads into gasoline coma.
Dried mud paths lead to a
mullet brown harbour,
where chips shops and plastic buckets
turn the air into a potent fog,
pickled lungs never been so glad
but never as full as memories eye.
Those furnace fields still ablaze
long after the gates fell.
Western Man in a painting
for the East...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

End/Gone (Sand on Pavements)

The thought behind this piece was nothing is really solid. All our memories are unique and when we die the memories die too. Almost like nothing in life really happened.



Everything has gone,
all that life
that never was
has gone.
Places past
that were worn on sleeves
but never were,
have gone.
Childhood summers
of peaches and cafe arcades
which never were,
all gone.
Everything that never was
gone to meet its End...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Clock Press On Overdose

The badgers run
under the feet of thunder,
they scatter once light falls
onto artery gashes.
Gold chokeholds and blunt teeth
turn ketamine from the trough
into baby meat;
cider lights deep roots.
Blind from clingfilm
and studded skin,
a dragon hunts the pits
for blazes.
Rotor blades turn to straw
as candy anthems fight for space.
There be tigers
always,
in blunt forests;
grey cartoons alive
on skin,
we bloodied always sink the ill...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Volcano Flower

There is a flower
that I follow
to her heart,
the grave,
that well thumbed bed.
Lips rotting
like a bomb,
hair as webbed
as chicken wings.
Love,
young and spiteful,
torn and teased
the map of magic
in bald sight...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Perhaps (Hopefully)

People can live in worls unknown
as long as death gondolas
stay out of sight,
and posy pulses of fear
jerk our footsteps.
Grains of salt
freshen nerves,
awake
all we are,
earned a page of breath
with a small word of gratitude
to the king Huntsman...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Leaving Earth to Play a Zombie

No tan for lepers,
the skin has gone on holiday
leaving blood to froth
over gums,
and dribble onto the breastbone
weak as fish scales.
Past life, loves
and mistakes
cling like graffiti to a well chewed frame.
Flesh is fine for mourning,
a real tent for umpteen miseries
to shelter from time and touch.
The honest look of man
in the empire of death...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Kung Fu/Bamboo Kiss

Power to satchel eye master
as the jigsaw ballet trips
to orders of the mandolin,
razor muscle super shield.
Mystic tricks from mortals
blow away feeble poseurs.
Let justice be done
before an audience of gentle dragons
in this beautiful manicured
sober art...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Get Your Finger Out Of My Shoe

Step out of my shadow baby flower,
go rest in chocolate cradles
because I am a blood wasted street boy,
a fiend, a fisherman of dirty stories
where light is long forgotten.
Memories suffer in this brain damage,
only vandal actions remain.
Go dance on rainbows some place else,
go plant happy sticks in merry sunshine
and raise the dollars there.
I want nothing save my pretty circus
and golden sleeves,
a bed of bat skin
to lay the nightmares.
Damaged goods stay beautiful,
theres no fun in California smiles or hymns,
these eyes want gore,
lots of merry gore and tragedy.
Praise indeed to monsters, blades and heroin...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Aluminium Thorns Sunk like Teeth in Mildew

I am cold hearted thorn
of many faces
and where muscle is plenty I grow,
fall to me thin as a rapier
swollen fairy on my spider legged boughs.

There is little comfort
on seas of anaesthesia
where blood is as curdled as milk.
Laughter cowers in delirious shadows
and bone turns frail like silk.

Tongue in silence
clad roughly in white,
fat with water but dry from drugs.
Taste vinegar sweat on sunken cheeks
before a shroud becomes a blanket of mud.

The mess of death
with vulgar stains
lurks in crisp white creases of gore.
Parade the sick on rubber stilts
la maquina del amor.

But peace can fall
upon the murder fields
and dust grisly tics away,
because suffering is just another face
on a different kind of day.

There lies hidden maps
beneath the surface,
beyond the reach of lipstick and gold.
Sink into the arms of light
where brittle hearts grow bold...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

God, Send for the Devil

Viloence moves without puss inflated ceremony,
it has no force or golden nectar
but soldiers on through
hooded houses and deathly wards
disturbing rhythms of content.
No bullshit on its collar
or jackpot under its heels,
knuckles turn to talons in the hunt.
Rage dignified,
a ton punch in church.

Sing for the cascabel
and giddy lizards,
only poison will ever cure tantrums,
fire best fought through fury.
Smog in sunny graves
tear angels lungs to silk bonnets,
a million skulls cry for the better part of good.
It needs disease this slutty stunted world
because horrors die quicker in the jaws of brutality.

Gather the mad and whisper them war songs
so that twilight chains snap
and fist becomes flower,
crazy gulls do not hear nonsense.
The trick to cheating death
is to become crazier than Death itself.
Black heart pigs
warm their kidneys on wine
while toasting cripples
over the burning bodies of the sane.
Illness cannot find seed
in fleshy blankets of melanoma,
nor does war end with a feather or sonnet.
Double the dragon,
requiescat in pace...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Daffodil in Ice Melted by Night

Summer crocodile wallow
in blood poses,
the children of Falstaff
love danger.
Wander on through green tipped lanes
toward butter and string music
and simmer as the sun
turns misery into cider chrome.
Yellow stalk raise the damp!
Disease has no patrol in cinder gardens
bonnetted by foxgloves,
the razor machine has no mascot here,
where gentleman die at night
cracked by the weight
of a bloated moon...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

(B.I.D.) Beautiful in Dying

The horizon
sharp as scarab spines
hides a coil of clouds
beneath its green and thirsty belt,
but small is the slew approaching
compared to the wild ways of sinew.
A crazy mess of bones
holding death in human form
like a dreamcatcher woven from skin.
Glutton the air until the last rattle,
then give up to Azrael
with sober spirit
and ribcage neatly folded...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Bald Lights (On/Off)

Boiled suits
lined up on Domino road,
aware of nothing but stagnant fantasy
and jaded kids.
Straight backed for the kill
like black goats on cheap wine,
you have it all played out
yet hold nothing in those blistered claws.
The chase of the dream
blinds like froth in a beer glass
but the hangover is deadly,
blowing hearts to the size of shopping trolleys
and keeping them from honesty.

Dull is the strolling wax work afraid of fire,
there are no escapes on that road.
Fear doesn't leave too many footsteps
on the minotaur,
but often leaves Man caged by letterboxes
and Sunday afternoons.
The boozers and perverts
have all the answers,
their gods lead them through broken hearted capers
to a sincere wisdom not seen in city windows.
Honour and trust come from cell blocks
or tiny roadside kennels,
away from the marble cold of church pews
where monster hunts for monster...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Suicide from the Edge of a Star

We blind dolls rotten in sleep
never see the fleshy strings of Love,
the fat electric clouds
and bullshit cameras
keep us hid from Summer.
Voodoo eagles have our guts and skulls
to feed cherubs
and entertain the Damaged.
All of us
little snorts of liver candles,
too weak for heavy petting
are worm holed into deathly arteries.
We cannot piss or shave for the clutter,
a drunkard everyone.

And beyond the filth,
away from septic pages and idols
Love flirts with us,
daring us to reach for its stocking tops
and tear a moment of peace
from its milky thigh.
All monks and rubies sail above
in celestial pantries stuffed with olives and beer,
roast boar and wine
whilst we poor hungry piglets
trade skin on the shores of Cocytus,
swapping dignity with vulgar pearls.

The womb needs a gaurdian
to stop the reaper breaking sweat on rednecks.
We down here inthis terrible grip of gimmicks
must learn to Live again,
learn to ignore the empty sounds
of dead ogres who still perform
but we never will.
Gutless in mega stomachs,
carrying fried baubels on sorry shoulders,
walking no taller than scorpions
but without the glorious sting.
A mighty bother to have come so far
to find everything sane has gone.

A skeletal world skidding on its nerves
which keep the sober straight
and the rebels warm,
bourbon smashed on rocks.
So different a band of brothers now
than those on Henry's tail,
our inspirations all on numbered sticks,
tongues rolling in fried chicken.
Everything needs rehab and Buddha landscapes
or we squander it all like bullies
and go mad from lipstick and Hollywood,
facing death without sun or Saint
to guide us to the grave...

@Steven Francis Poems 2009