Adieu Nosferatu

Dash those gas pellets
pummel them into my leather breasts;
gift me volcano heroin
and polish the switch
then lay me in white pastures
with my kin.
After sunless months
I look with longing to vertigo journeys.

So lather my kidneys
stone these eyes,
throttle sin out of its blasphemous shell
and lead me through troughs of shame.
Kill my nosferatu
fill my fists with holy dust,
save me from glazed winterlands
master, dissolve these earthly bonds...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

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

World Below/Winter Fathoms

Furious drifts harden thrashing webs
prepared to shred the shallow wasteland -
what foul bolus upsets that neverending beast
to turn from gentle spine
(such millpond creases)
into herds of hissing tendrils?
The backs of flooded cities scream upward
from shelled maelstroms,
hinting to tourists
of seismic tendons beneath the frothy mane.
Surrender a piece of sanity from your molten ego
so that Man might be as calmed
as tides of season.
There is no more mad poison
for sentinels and townsfolk to simmer on;
rabid themes sleep amongst infernal surges
gathering serenity in fresh pockets of sand.
Cowboys and fishermen still seek dread loot
but the sun lures nothing -
only drowned cadavers like eyeless holy relics
howl where nets are cast...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

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

Cigarette Etiquette

Every day is wonderful
and im becoming less a slave,
for each new day that passes by
takes me closer to the grave.

No regrets on any branch
my fruits both hard and wild,
come sit and rest upon my shoulder,
my grave where I sleep a while...

@Steven Francis poems 2010