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

Afternoon Sunset

Everybody here is on
valium soundwaves,
hectic blues and musings.
No iced water,
ice will freeze the high.
Only sweet tea will suffice.
Drifting.
Sleep to be understood.
This coma lust has me pinned
to a smile,
has my afternoons in gridlock.
Numb teeth
sink into mellow veins...

@Steven Francis poems 1996

Gulag Requiems prt2

Regret

Regret. I have plenty.
Regret. Close the door.
Wasted a fortune. Regret.
Made myself mad. Regret.

Regret. Throw away my soul.
Regret. Cannot remember tears.
Selfish walls surround this heart. Regret.
Nobodies child. Regret.

Regret. A sealed mouth.
Regret. Poisoned nirvana.
Walk along suicide. Regret.
You get used to Regret...

@Steven Francis poems 1996

The Day I Swallowed Stone

Crawling up a circus wall
like a paper man I rose,
looking down I saw the fall
and wished my grave would close.

The ceiling above my head had gone
clouds they seemed so near,
from a gaping wound where lightbulbs shone
now dripped a crucifix tear.

I walked a million miles that day
on a lonely graffiti street,
all I saw was a seance grey
and beggars on twisted feet.

Life was there I gulped the air
a taste of burning choices,
I floated down no wing nor stair
free from salted voices...

@Steven Francis 1995

Fairground Beat

Jelly feet crowds
tied with crow tongues
as children
squeeze life from mothers hand.
Animal lights shine delighted
frenzy into speed.
Stuffed with candy floss
and hot dogs (hold the mustard).

Stop and start
hair raising wheels
of rollercoaster wilderness.
White knuckles
hide fear,
death in a sandwich
up and down
and around the bezerk.

Starving goldfish
(hold the gold)
won with boomerangs,
bearded coconuts
line the firing squad,
unkempt and quaking
as cola cowboys wank their triggers
for fluffy whatarethoses?
on their gallows.

Nine lives
to a fairground beat,
grinding clicking hearts
and silver bones
to dust.
Stuck to the
toffee apple handrail
the teeth clenched sun
rolls on
in fingernail flashbombs...

@Steven Francis 1997

Stradey Hills

Fifteen blood red iron men
shake a thousand souls
and more,
driven by power
of immortal green
and distant Gower shore.

Sospan fach boils on fire
soldier Dai
will light the spark,
whilst sospan fawr
has burned its last
on Stradey's famous park.

In they marched from corners
of west Wales
and beyond,
to add the
Scarlet anthems
to where treasured hymns belong.

The last game played
victory
but the cat scrams Johnny still,
and baby in the cribs
first words shall be
twenty seven to nil!...

@Steven Francis poems 2008

10.11pm Fri 24th Oct 2008

To Stradey Park