No Love Of Summer

Here and there (where the sun deems fit to touch)
are pockets of merry tinctures
rushing toward a camera lens,
eager to reign in spewy blossoms
to show glory what glory should be.
But all the wild boy does
is sit cross legged in bitter death defying moods
feeding Scylla and Charbydis,
clicking his ruby nails over sincere fables.
He knows the demons know
and the burdens lay heavy
straining to crush maddening threads of joy,
turning holy balms to cinder.

Life must feed on fat,
those plush meadows of comfort
where cotton spines stay safe from hurt
and fangs of darkness lurk behind their doors
jonesing to introduce them misfortune.
No golden season nor honey lanes
shall meet and guide the troubled good
or their cold livers
as they slip into unknown depths
beneath brittle eyelids.
And in those frozen wastes be warned,
bare branches cradle ghosts and hatchets.

Shamen sense with barbed whiskers
the sour rays of a suppurated sun
no longer cooled by gin toned dew,
while visitors stumble on foreign shelves
near the frayed ends of safety.
The cross legged child squints at the moon
as it throbs against its tar breasted background
struggling with weights of approaching sunshine;
fragments of idle holidays lost
shattered like a plastic Gordian knot.
Stay safe from deamons and what madness understands,
the structure of light
and grinning darlings of infernal abyss...

@Steven Francis poems 2010