Delightful Engine

It slithers in my gut
like lard;
this wall of fat
behind my ribs,
burning beyond the epiglottis
pull on alcohol
as if it was sunshine,
life eternal.
A bloated centipede
hitched onto my skin
like buttered saddles,
freezing tears
before they roll onto clockwork triggers,
aiming for bone in a pubic forest...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

A Death Mask

Often I lay with frog spawn eyes
staring at balls of space;
a hammered tattooed pig hulk
in ruffled bedclothes,
sunshine billowing
the silence,
posing, me dead to world.
An overdosed globule
catching bats
with granite cladded mouth,
my tongue tolling
for soft dew
and guillotine hymns.
I play dead before regal mourning begins in earnest,
a wick for the spirit into oils
of rigor mortis -
until air falls back into my lungs
and I suck,
a pull on the death
that keeps me alive...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Cold Orb In Lycan Skies

The stagnant pearl is in the air,
I see the tumult of rage and sorrow
rise onto winds from shell shocked backs;
half a planet awake tonight,
sober as mists devour hell plagues,
grim fortune lurks beneath heavy coils.
This is night.
The scabbard of Life!
Death has no rule over temperance.
Forward into solace
diseased claw with infernal nails,
songs of black
cast into a fierce cowl.

White soul boiling in its broth,
mountains jostle for new horizons
as eagles bring new scenes.
We tossing twisting,
ever shifting flecks of pulse
soar under moon and star
like tiny ogres roasting swans.
Lethal barbs scar not
whilst poison suffocates in smoke,
the landscapes love and mourn us.
Dashing swords skewer fat wrecks,
relentless headbut of the horns.

It skids politely in the sky
that subtle muse,
crown of ice;
save us from carcass
skull tapped endings.
Temple of the timeless
honest mask of the devil'd night,
guide our shallow pinpricks
as we turn in our deaths.
A stable hope
reminding the godless they are not alone,
omnipresent mega Amen,
root of proof that the poor prosper...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

The Sour Storms

Weak is the canopy which holds
soul and organs,
prey to waves of centuries -
knuckled by disease and dogs,
a fragile barrier
broken in earnest.

Like pulpy dolls we die -
crushed, stabbed,
ripped, ravished,
herded into cancerous bowels
as dainty frames collapse into waste.

Every step through this mortal soup
open to a scissor'd wake
whilst sickly shoals swell
within the kidneys,
curried in fermenting grave wax.

Venom lurks between heartbeats
waiting to strike at ticking bulbs
with grim deathly force,
delivering bubonic berry tumours
to every grain of breath.

Friends of Death -
growing en masse against muscle blankets
turning each frond vulgar
from scabs and mucas,
a painters palette
of grisly sugared spawn.

Anvils taking liberties with paper
as razors overcome the lillies;
more ripened bells for hell
crushed under cancers,
fleeced by melanoma -
young dead
baubels of infection.

The gruesome call of misery
rings over heaving skin
and subtle blood stars settle amongst
iron weighted freckles.
Scream at delicate defences
while anguish unfolds
wreaking villanous ends in matted pores...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Marching Drum of the Chambers

In here
on the other side of the phlegm coils
fresh air is stalled,
buffered by isolation
and clipped on sterile steel.
Sanctuary of the horned
in pretty gulags,
severed from beating sun,
kept beyond the reach of nature.
No sand to swallow heels
or rivers to speak of,
forget estuaries and rugged coasts
here lies dead ends.
No tree bark to scuff
the finger pads,
no dew on webby toes.
Brain lost in hazy halls of solitude
where hair is all that grows;
dreams and breath,
deserved of nothing more
in a dungeon sink hole...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

The A to Z Of Light

Death is always on my shoulder
I could not lose the page -

the offering of
a diamond lined silk coffin
complete with air holes
and beer mat
is with me always

every sober minute
all of time
morbid but serene...

@Steven Francis 2009

We Are Dead

We walk dead
we look dead -

to sequined eyes
and spinning circus brains
we are silver chains on doom.

We talk dead
we smoke dead -

young flowers wilt
at our whims,
we brazen killers
pureed in candy sauce.

We eat dead
we play dead -

simmering silence
at the news of the day,
cold to events
and cherry red love.

We happy dead
we happy dead
we happy
we...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Taken from 'The Angina Engine'