A cat scratches
where once she slept,
chewing copper bags for luxuries
and minted vermin.
Danger never has a minute
and as knives and rifles feed or kill
with equal calm
reflections will always look better
in print than screams in a bathroom mirror.
A cave filled with roses
has no light,
theres no forgiveness in addiction.
The cat walks alongside a prophet
on bloody tracks;
there are no new stories
or exciting new news,
death is welcomed once again...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Thursday 17 September 2009
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Cuttlefish Hour (The Faint Skull)
Born of grim days;
temples of doubt in the grain,
little stony beats
winding in breath like an octopus
groping for delinquent fry.
Cotton clogs the air
and panic brings to life
the final minutes of long years.
Clock hands become triggers
never ending swipes at the soul.
The inward eye once filled with corn and bottle
now looks on scenes of Golgotha,
searching for the might
of recovery in snippets of terrible noise.
Silence smash the hours to pulp,
madness,
raise your magic in bony fired deserts.
@Steven Francis poems 2009
temples of doubt in the grain,
little stony beats
winding in breath like an octopus
groping for delinquent fry.
Cotton clogs the air
and panic brings to life
the final minutes of long years.
Clock hands become triggers
never ending swipes at the soul.
The inward eye once filled with corn and bottle
now looks on scenes of Golgotha,
searching for the might
of recovery in snippets of terrible noise.
Silence smash the hours to pulp,
madness,
raise your magic in bony fired deserts.
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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