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
About Me
- Steven Francis
- I started writing in school and discovered it was the only thing that could hold my interest (apart from sex). I knew from the lump inside me that some creative channel had to be my direction. And be good or bad it is some kind of legacy.
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