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