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

God, Send for the Devil

Viloence moves without puss inflated ceremony,
it has no force or golden nectar
but soldiers on through
hooded houses and deathly wards
disturbing rhythms of content.
No bullshit on its collar
or jackpot under its heels,
knuckles turn to talons in the hunt.
Rage dignified,
a ton punch in church.

Sing for the cascabel
and giddy lizards,
only poison will ever cure tantrums,
fire best fought through fury.
Smog in sunny graves
tear angels lungs to silk bonnets,
a million skulls cry for the better part of good.
It needs disease this slutty stunted world
because horrors die quicker in the jaws of brutality.

Gather the mad and whisper them war songs
so that twilight chains snap
and fist becomes flower,
crazy gulls do not hear nonsense.
The trick to cheating death
is to become crazier than Death itself.
Black heart pigs
warm their kidneys on wine
while toasting cripples
over the burning bodies of the sane.
Illness cannot find seed
in fleshy blankets of melanoma,
nor does war end with a feather or sonnet.
Double the dragon,
requiescat in pace...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Daffodil in Ice Melted by Night

Summer crocodile wallow
in blood poses,
the children of Falstaff
love danger.
Wander on through green tipped lanes
toward butter and string music
and simmer as the sun
turns misery into cider chrome.
Yellow stalk raise the damp!
Disease has no patrol in cinder gardens
bonnetted by foxgloves,
the razor machine has no mascot here,
where gentleman die at night
cracked by the weight
of a bloated moon...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

(B.I.D.) Beautiful in Dying

The horizon
sharp as scarab spines
hides a coil of clouds
beneath its green and thirsty belt,
but small is the slew approaching
compared to the wild ways of sinew.
A crazy mess of bones
holding death in human form
like a dreamcatcher woven from skin.
Glutton the air until the last rattle,
then give up to Azrael
with sober spirit
and ribcage neatly folded...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Bald Lights (On/Off)

Boiled suits
lined up on Domino road,
aware of nothing but stagnant fantasy
and jaded kids.
Straight backed for the kill
like black goats on cheap wine,
you have it all played out
yet hold nothing in those blistered claws.
The chase of the dream
blinds like froth in a beer glass
but the hangover is deadly,
blowing hearts to the size of shopping trolleys
and keeping them from honesty.

Dull is the strolling wax work afraid of fire,
there are no escapes on that road.
Fear doesn't leave too many footsteps
on the minotaur,
but often leaves Man caged by letterboxes
and Sunday afternoons.
The boozers and perverts
have all the answers,
their gods lead them through broken hearted capers
to a sincere wisdom not seen in city windows.
Honour and trust come from cell blocks
or tiny roadside kennels,
away from the marble cold of church pews
where monster hunts for monster...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Suicide from the Edge of a Star

We blind dolls rotten in sleep
never see the fleshy strings of Love,
the fat electric clouds
and bullshit cameras
keep us hid from Summer.
Voodoo eagles have our guts and skulls
to feed cherubs
and entertain the Damaged.
All of us
little snorts of liver candles,
too weak for heavy petting
are worm holed into deathly arteries.
We cannot piss or shave for the clutter,
a drunkard everyone.

And beyond the filth,
away from septic pages and idols
Love flirts with us,
daring us to reach for its stocking tops
and tear a moment of peace
from its milky thigh.
All monks and rubies sail above
in celestial pantries stuffed with olives and beer,
roast boar and wine
whilst we poor hungry piglets
trade skin on the shores of Cocytus,
swapping dignity with vulgar pearls.

The womb needs a gaurdian
to stop the reaper breaking sweat on rednecks.
We down here inthis terrible grip of gimmicks
must learn to Live again,
learn to ignore the empty sounds
of dead ogres who still perform
but we never will.
Gutless in mega stomachs,
carrying fried baubels on sorry shoulders,
walking no taller than scorpions
but without the glorious sting.
A mighty bother to have come so far
to find everything sane has gone.

A skeletal world skidding on its nerves
which keep the sober straight
and the rebels warm,
bourbon smashed on rocks.
So different a band of brothers now
than those on Henry's tail,
our inspirations all on numbered sticks,
tongues rolling in fried chicken.
Everything needs rehab and Buddha landscapes
or we squander it all like bullies
and go mad from lipstick and Hollywood,
facing death without sun or Saint
to guide us to the grave...

@Steven Francis Poems 2009