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