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

As Tigers Sleep On Lilypads

All the riverbanks are quiet,
evening silhouettes stab the wildlife
and light breezes into dark fits
mephistopheles lurks in the ivy mobbed graveyard;
nests filled with belsen chicks
wobble under wormy breaths
but the whirlwind is awake.
That metal pupil bathed in light
beyond tafarns and ponds
sees red on tongues,
and as inmates soft in slumber
wail in their dreams
their fantasies ferment in bubonic fire.

Green still grows in swollen fists
and meadows roll to order
as flesh stunted lips
rise the blood of nature,
but the septic stone and bamboo steel
still sulks in crescents of the moon.
While all around is cradle to still waters
the violent shake in fragile shells,
their rage the chains
that hold them drowned...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tawel Nawr (Quiet Now)

Know this from Man;
sorrow has no dominion in faithful hearts,
grief but a puddle on memories pastures.
Such gentle smile upon that face
but death rocks me not,
only the spirit in which you lived...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Horror Unfolds As Cartoon Toy Looks On

As vegitarian boy
turns into a murderous superbeast
shivering between slobber,
the happy faces on soft toys remain unchanged;
frozen in a merry stare
watching kindness curdle
and morph into a twisted wolf.

Laughter and Rage
bouncing off each others mask,
running on doom
across foreign maps
tilting cages filled with
iron and glass balls,
spilling them over natures Order.

Seething hell takes over beast
but comedy still pirouettes
on the toys smiling head,
even as calm is smashed in lunatic shards.
Hatred in fun's domain
laughter on cruel shores;
both wild in their own
frantic barebacked way,
shunning fragile shells...

@Steven Francis poems 2009