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
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