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