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