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
Wednesday 24 June 2009
Monday 22 June 2009
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
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
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
Saturday 13 June 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
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
Wednesday 3 June 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 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
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
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