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