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
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