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

You Call Me Murders, I Call You Hell

Conjoined souls in a lilly wraith
beating rumpuses on the pillow,
I love your hate
you love my cruelty,
where will this fury lead?
This clash of heads
beneath a wilting bed,
stubborn, stark raving Love.

Its all good on Devils Isle;
you gartered heron
stabbing on shores of my greasy waist
while hammers smack fat asses.
Pick and tear each others dins
like cannibals flirting
in fish guts.
Weak for danger
always hunting lies.

Peace be damned,
I hate, you hate
sometimes there is calm.
You burn, I burn
sometimes we see coal.
Aprons at dawn,
there are no arrows in our scorpion.
This no good Love jargon
abandon before its gills dry out.

Dance to cheesegraters
until our thighs fall off,
we gun each other
like howling bandits in a coffee storm.
You beat me
I nail you,
our beats and nails fill tender kidneys
with nasty gentle motions
and we dance to age old quarrels.
We bite, stab and chew
but strip away the dark veneer
and there is only us.
We two, fighting as one for this Love...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Following My Bones To The Angel Yard Without Stone Or Rib

The weight of darkness drags good men down
into paper paradise promised by snakes;
there are no gunshots on death row
or lillies for clean heroes.
We want our knees to lead us to the garden,
we follow our hearts into coal showers
and crush prayer into whisper.
Wheels drive us mad into shaved pits
the sheppards have no call in this,
our path on rugged shores.
Lullabies may tip us into trenches
and cut the sinewy cord
but all forces lead to bony palms,
savage the dreams of the dead.
Follow passion or destruction,
abstinence or greed,
we the people
relics and shells...

@Steven Francis poems 2009