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