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

Mortuaries And Cream

Shake nightmares from cloves of sleep,
unchain the eyes
and smother cogs in cotton.
Let the scalpel brush its tinny finger
over mulched pages of puzzles,
grief always played at dead ends.
Lost in sewers
a swan drifts toward the carvery,
to jelly and drugs,
slopping inside a tattooed shell.
Twist toe tags into furry coils of wheat,
there lies less than a soul
surrounded by ivory,
gone to find honey for its wounds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

A Poet's Thoughts

I always thought the human spirit was pretty tough and resilient but show it stockings and high heels and all reservations goes to rat shit..thats power for you...stockings and high heels..of course the Arthurian figure (to extend this verbiage) must look like Angie Jolie because if you look like Plain Jane then all power goes to buggery (and not in a good way)

Poet Steven Francis

All Motion Toward Death

In fleeting instant
calamity calls with fierce stamps
and lights shine
on shocks of something dead.
A fragile glass sliver
for the pew;
each one of us feel the quarrel waves
and tick them off with candy bows,
only to be stunned from vibrations
when bulbs crash on
starched froth shores.

We bark from brimstone lips
but webs in our heart,
those tentacles which cradle Love
and peck at spite,
make nodding to death easy.
Peeled marble skin
shed quietly onto katana roads,
life eager always for long haired tombs.
Arteries stretched over sunglasses
gather balls of ash
like fishnet lanterns on red globes.

Knuckles aim for undertakers
while hymns stretch greying whiskers
as queues clutter stained windows,
hail to laments hanging on sober air.
Final songs on tinted coma
which toss mortal fish into grass fists,
and weave recent ghosts
into cold coils of ocean.
Settle into infinite arms
while poets stitch stone blessings
over quiet soil.

No ruffled agonies will upon
the eyelids lay,
and peace will honey itself
to liberated mysteries.
All highways beyond touch
lead into Sanctuary;
seldom where rats and prophets
congregate in sympathy,
always for thirst of pearl ballads.
Static pose draped over
blood thrones.

Grim dolls walk toward graves
without fanfare,
in silence over the underground pools.
Resurrection into butter lands
turn muscle into chamomile oil.
Fear no demon and seek no silver lane,
for our steps into eternity
shall uncover fantastic horizons,
and seeds of whatever drives
the soul of Man
will settle on gentle plains...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Bad Blood Sessions

Roads to wild instincts
lead to Love of wasted brains
and diamond coated cathetars.
The princes of bile
charge into churches of desolation,
putting souls to boil,
pretty ghouls for parties.

Lizards parade their spines
while lions stretch death
along zebra throats;
honeycomb crypts
for the hellish bound.
Animals all,
all talon'd wizards,
skill of beasts
panic of the murder herds...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Mother Earth for Digital

Love has no fathom
or limits,
nothing would help betray
the love of eggs
wrapped by Giants
and pounded with stone of age.
There is no cure
nor bite for fish,
cotton soaks venom in tails
of sunshine,
hail memory to ginseng bone.

Flat roofs smash embryos
into adulthood,
concrete seed for wild ages,
blooming in the turret sand
where plastic soldiers dare taunt
the wolf and kneel it to its cushion.
Mother arms hold dear blood
close to spiked bark
as cloven leaves fall to order.
Cane devils, candy lambs
a feast of olives to babes.

Daggers sail onto upright palms
waiting for relief from horror,
but wayward saints have no cunning
in wrath of wounds
and comfort is beyond fire.
No mother strips for bombs
or lure lust on heels,
but if torch happened on skin
the ghost would fan the chain
and tears soil cribs.

Moon flail teeth
until devils no longer have passport
between the dials,
there are no roots in stockinged sheaths.
Hang heads like vagabonds
to those kissing herons,
a raised leg for audience.
Love mother
mother I love for eagles,
no skull carved of emblems.
All country folds for cobras...

@Steven Francis poems 2009