A Walking Mess of Wire

Each kick of heels in dust
along the linament smelling valley floor
bring the lizards erotica to peak;
boulder grey, throbbing waves
rising behind a wire grin mask.
Ferment the nettle fever in glass manacles
as belts tighten around delicate stems
and songs drown under fingertips.
Such is being sincerely macabre
when raptures rise in suffocation.

Emotionless as sights of cruelty descend,
eager for suffering
baptized in sex and the foul;
tools of death almost jump from their grip
as lambs wander into a webby path.
Murder dynamics
sending dragons into Love and joys
while the artery red kingfisher
skulks within pecking distance of the morgue...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tell My Child

Tell my child if I am not to live
my spirit is here always ready to give -

a comforting cwtch when Life turns cold
from a crystal cove where Love is sold.

Or an honest word when lies abound
to walk with grace over thorny ground.

Tell my child on those linament nights
that her fevers pass through healing lights.

And when she weeps as people must
to bury doubt and lay with trust.

Be not afraid to touch on death
where you will thrive with every breath.

Ignore the slights from jealous lips
and their bitter souls in a lonely grip.

Oh wondrous gib, oh child of mine
shun the snakes who trust in wine.

And guard against those solemn pews
with paper hearts that lie to you.

But I need not worry or dent the sky
because you were brewed by an oracle eye...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Hook Flurries

Metallic coils choke heated fronds,
from breastbone to hollow teeth
where pittance in sands are measured,
death is welcomed as the hams are cooked.
No slivers of fear sweep the eyelids
as kidney plates turn daffodil soft;
crossbone strikes settling in sinkholes
where dogs of moderation are skinned
in favour of lust and avarice.
Gravity pulls the cannibal babes
to their filthy cots but sleep however fancy
always a stubborn bolt away.

Curious freckles simmer on catfish jowls
pricking the glass shell
like stars burning on the edge of space,
breathless icons kept from us.

Beggar at the night scriptures;
silence reigns as crowned eagles unravel
the spring works of Life,
taking hook eyed beasts down into sacrament pits
while frail sons set their fins to knuckle music.
Suffer,
suffer in the depths
eager for refuge in needle arbours...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

To Bethena

I missed your love and kindness,
your soul of souls,
but beauty with its assorted delinquents and trinkets
never fades or wilts,
and 'tho I nest amongst adders in the dawn
I am at the gentle mercy of you always.
Those eyes, that smile,
a face which had all the answers
and hangs forever, a portrait in my chest.
Oh to have known you darling Bethena!
To have held your hand
and walked with you, both poets on fire,
a furious blaze all together smothering the page.

I gaze into your eyes, those chessnut pools
and know what might have been
is happening now in the emerald garden
where your delicate touch is freezing the furies.
Bethena! Gone before your time
but time itself will be your tribute
as those you Love remember you,
and this ode, testament of your inspiration
which reshaped the horizons of a distant hand.
Oh to have known you!
But content am I to know that you live on,
triumphed over crocodiles
and sending Love in butterflies...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

If It Was Cyanide

If that button over there
were cyanide,
I would pop it on my tongue
and go out with the tide.

Or if my nails were as sharp
as an icy cutlass,
I could draw them down my veins
to disappear like gas.

I want beans and everything
to simply be cyanide,
lethal edging
for my earthy hide...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Sin & Danger

Clock hands shaped like sniper rifles
clicked soundly to futures
where vandals tresspass shilling malls
and rictus grins increase mania.
We are drowning families,
family drowned,
animals in weakened packs
hunting jams and spirits,
spirit jam.

Bruised cheeks bold as the rising sun
turn to face bottles and daggers
as Jewy nosed crooks run their creepy show,
make no mistake in dangerous dens.
In riots and order,
ordered riots
we rampage through electric cities,
city rampage.

And pearl handled razors are shelved pretty;
blades polished by mortuary wax
prepared for the shredding,
stood in saluted awe to misery.
The mad love crazes
crazy mad,
revving engines of violence,
violent revs.

New dawns arise from volcanic dents,
tiny sequels to the sunshine monsters
who ravage knitted bosoms
in liveries of spangled gore.
The smiles of infants
infant smile,
born alive and dying
dead alive...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Mother Gallows

We shall bring back the gallows
some day;
when guns rob for bullets
and bullets have souls
we will bring back the gallows
one day.

We will bring back the noose
some day;
when machete toothed pike
plunder ghost still ponds
we shall bring back the noose
one day.

We will bring back the scaffold
some day;
as murder cysts spread
in sanctuary cities
we will bring back the scaffold
one day.

We shall bring back hemp collars
one day;
when witches trick poets
into beds of blood
the rope will revive its knot
one day...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Shuriken Lake

Glass crested centipedes
hunt the sane in crepe broths,
spiteful in persistance
mighty in their patience,
watching the frost fish on mad paths.
Cock a leg to Fear
in stygian mist,
the bombers are paralysed
as wax gathers like sickly pools
on putrid flesh.

Oiled devil pose
in creepy un-natural ways,
keen to find the stilled pearls
as they power stalk
beneath a lightning shelter
of heamorrhaged vessels.
Inside crystal lined cots
gaping mouths catch bats
on a sonic route to hell
and fattened eels fall in love
with the bloated tongues of milk dolls.

Into cascading mania
and locked in black,
the ice whispers drift onward
through mackerel valleys
carried by wings of ethereal swans.
To the pegged shroud dynasty
across luminous sands,
sail shrieking, rubber banshees -
broody parcels of the fell sergeant...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Pyre Symptoms (Of A Tear)

See much berries in bunches
flourishing in bladed avenues -
the death hawk keeps it close
(that frigid secret)
but witness a glimpse
beneath jackal shawls
of an expiring dome
and knuckles curled like bush fires.

Watch cadaverous dancers knock on pine
with a dishwater pallor
whilst fiery petals flicker on lizard gills.
Pray for meat and rosaries,
a final cube of sugar
to dissolve in cyanide yolks
as Angeu's crew clad in denim robes
raise a battleaxe to cannibals
and maids of honour.

On maps of blood
not a limb is spared;
no gates opened for king nor child
for every bone yields to death,
nothing survives a sincere frenzy.
Born fragile to skin and oils
to a savage world
of time and cut throats.
Seek sanctuary
in the chapel wild...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Adieu Nosferatu

Dash those gas pellets
pummel them into my leather breasts;
gift me volcano heroin
and polish the switch
then lay me in white pastures
with my kin.
After sunless months
I look with longing to vertigo journeys.

So lather my kidneys
stone these eyes,
throttle sin out of its blasphemous shell
and lead me through troughs of shame.
Kill my nosferatu
fill my fists with holy dust,
save me from glazed winterlands
master, dissolve these earthly bonds...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

No Love Of Summer

Here and there (where the sun deems fit to touch)
are pockets of merry tinctures
rushing toward a camera lens,
eager to reign in spewy blossoms
to show glory what glory should be.
But all the wild boy does
is sit cross legged in bitter death defying moods
feeding Scylla and Charbydis,
clicking his ruby nails over sincere fables.
He knows the demons know
and the burdens lay heavy
straining to crush maddening threads of joy,
turning holy balms to cinder.

Life must feed on fat,
those plush meadows of comfort
where cotton spines stay safe from hurt
and fangs of darkness lurk behind their doors
jonesing to introduce them misfortune.
No golden season nor honey lanes
shall meet and guide the troubled good
or their cold livers
as they slip into unknown depths
beneath brittle eyelids.
And in those frozen wastes be warned,
bare branches cradle ghosts and hatchets.

Shamen sense with barbed whiskers
the sour rays of a suppurated sun
no longer cooled by gin toned dew,
while visitors stumble on foreign shelves
near the frayed ends of safety.
The cross legged child squints at the moon
as it throbs against its tar breasted background
struggling with weights of approaching sunshine;
fragments of idle holidays lost
shattered like a plastic Gordian knot.
Stay safe from deamons and what madness understands,
the structure of light
and grinning darlings of infernal abyss...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

World Below/Winter Fathoms

Furious drifts harden thrashing webs
prepared to shred the shallow wasteland -
what foul bolus upsets that neverending beast
to turn from gentle spine
(such millpond creases)
into herds of hissing tendrils?
The backs of flooded cities scream upward
from shelled maelstroms,
hinting to tourists
of seismic tendons beneath the frothy mane.
Surrender a piece of sanity from your molten ego
so that Man might be as calmed
as tides of season.
There is no more mad poison
for sentinels and townsfolk to simmer on;
rabid themes sleep amongst infernal surges
gathering serenity in fresh pockets of sand.
Cowboys and fishermen still seek dread loot
but the sun lures nothing -
only drowned cadavers like eyeless holy relics
howl where nets are cast...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Kerbside Sonnet

Those dead who know the dead
alive at last in circus fields,
believe nothing of the living
or life at its most grave;
for dying makes the dead more stubborn
even more alive than serrated hearts
and death only another chapter,
the dead content in rigor poses...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Wisdom Of Ogres

The boiling masses see it all
and fret not at lines of ink
or teething madness
because no shallow discomforts
can ever prime the bomb.
A gentle brush
always feeds the barracudas
and where spilled gills
pools around ruffians and heartbreakers
there tornados shall rise,
lifting rib-less body works
above the walnut threshold.
We carry melodies in buttery creases
on our hides
letting swallows and blackbirds
pick at them until raw and weepy,
ignoring stinging birdsong
on a predators path
as little skulls strip the armour.
Weak and dying
monsters inherit the lands...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Modern Suicide

There is dog spit,
sprigs of yellow pearl
and we should snort those pips;
those lumpy bits
of phlegm and straw
that take us to the realms
of craziness like exhaust fumes
blowing from an emphysemic pit
where suckers hunt for golden babes.

The bottle luge is zipping
past herds of happy tourists
on frozen fields of cirrhosis;
fall now at the emperors feet
in a knot of mercy
before the waiting crash
shreds organs in a shrapnel cloud.
Night soon furs the sun
and honey dew bulbs will mourn for light.

Under a veil of peace,
white peace in soft bales
anvils and boulders beat the heart tentacles
into cotton blades,
to sweep life (real Life)
under the sharp barbs of cemetery fences.
Paradise fallen -
crisp fruits of hope and luck
mottled with a serpent sweat...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Cigarette Etiquette

Every day is wonderful
and im becoming less a slave,
for each new day that passes by
takes me closer to the grave.

No regrets on any branch
my fruits both hard and wild,
come sit and rest upon my shoulder,
my grave where I sleep a while...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

As Tigers Sleep On Lilypads

All the riverbanks are quiet,
evening silhouettes stab the wildlife
and light breezes into dark fits
mephistopheles lurks in the ivy mobbed graveyard;
nests filled with belsen chicks
wobble under wormy breaths
but the whirlwind is awake.
That metal pupil bathed in light
beyond tafarns and ponds
sees red on tongues,
and as inmates soft in slumber
wail in their dreams
their fantasies ferment in bubonic fire.

Green still grows in swollen fists
and meadows roll to order
as flesh stunted lips
rise the blood of nature,
but the septic stone and bamboo steel
still sulks in crescents of the moon.
While all around is cradle to still waters
the violent shake in fragile shells,
their rage the chains
that hold them drowned...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tawel Nawr (Quiet Now)

Know this from Man;
sorrow has no dominion in faithful hearts,
grief but a puddle on memories pastures.
Such gentle smile upon that face
but death rocks me not,
only the spirit in which you lived...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Horror Unfolds As Cartoon Toy Looks On

As vegitarian boy
turns into a murderous superbeast
shivering between slobber,
the happy faces on soft toys remain unchanged;
frozen in a merry stare
watching kindness curdle
and morph into a twisted wolf.

Laughter and Rage
bouncing off each others mask,
running on doom
across foreign maps
tilting cages filled with
iron and glass balls,
spilling them over natures Order.

Seething hell takes over beast
but comedy still pirouettes
on the toys smiling head,
even as calm is smashed in lunatic shards.
Hatred in fun's domain
laughter on cruel shores;
both wild in their own
frantic barebacked way,
shunning fragile shells...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

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

Harp Mantra

People bounce
and people sing,
but heroes never let
the ogres win.

And people dance
and people shout
but never let
the angels out...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Ragged Fox

Guy,
you felt the tumult
of pain,
but Fawkes
you punched
and not in vain.

Man,
upon the scaffold
above fetid crowds -
battered
but not bested,
still remembered now...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Windows (Beneath & Beyond)

Time outside sinks teeth
into rifles and manacles,
as pistons work the mannequins
and sauce is poured,
this dog -
this cloth horny, butter hawk,
sunk in jaundice and shame,
looks beyond the veil
to watch strangers.
Watch them screw
see them die,
and tell them he is thin.

In reflection and puddles
the fish is minnow,
with elastic waist
and minted belts,
a chiselled lord of delight.
There are no bubbles
or creases -
because glass is smooth,
but reach in and there is carrion.

Over the bristling traffic,
my eyes dry as coconut husks
are drawn to tungsten blondes
and lady shades,
behind the plastic frame
I am lust in panther coloured Levis.
They see this,
the women want the lava
in my volcanic, septic loins
but the mass graves
hitched to my chest
continue to echo the dead on my skin...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Glow

The fires rage
there is trouble coming,
fear breeds fear
as it grows.
But I will be fine,
I will be spared
because I am feeling
the glow.

The glow is mercy
a coups de grace,
for when Life
gets a bitch or too big.
And its here for all
both saints and sinners,
simply open a bottle
and swig.

Demons be damned
in the light of the glow,
sleeves of ginger
in tin or in glass.
Never alone
and shielded from pain,
become a sunflower
amongst matted grass.

Screw the sober
with wise intentions,
they think
but do not know.
Life's biggest secrets
or crazy ways
for they do not
feel the glow...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

To Beard Knit

I always wanted to be pretty,
a glass oiled peacock
with tattooed beak
and diamond singe'd organs.
But now im old
with barnacle pitted cheeks
and a beard -
a terrible hokus pokus
beneath my jaw.
More wizard than hero
this mad wire
smothering my lips
holds me,
sensible looking
and aloft...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Welcome Us For 5 Minutes

Say hello
for the five minutes
we are here,
the five minutes
we hang around
this bubble stocked corner.
To sing
to paint,
and turn murder into portraits
we are a band
of wasps with lethal anchors.

A savage breed
with frail egos and limits,
the kind of punks
that cowboys follow,
dead angels in the sand.
We curse
and spit,
we drink
and die,
reflections whom
you never dared to be.

Dead men with bold
stores of Life,
stacked to deliver wisdom
and shrug off moderation,
fat men with thin hips.
We point towards
columns of sanity,
we mad
the crazed,
dying fevered bards.
Frosted shades
over stale and modern graves...

@Steven Francis poems 2010