Weak is the canopy which holds
soul and organs,
prey to waves of centuries -
knuckled by disease and dogs,
a fragile barrier
broken in earnest.
Like pulpy dolls we die -
crushed, stabbed,
ripped, ravished,
herded into cancerous bowels
as dainty frames collapse into waste.
Every step through this mortal soup
open to a scissor'd wake
whilst sickly shoals swell
within the kidneys,
curried in fermenting grave wax.
Venom lurks between heartbeats
waiting to strike at ticking bulbs
with grim deathly force,
delivering bubonic berry tumours
to every grain of breath.
Friends of Death -
growing en masse against muscle blankets
turning each frond vulgar
from scabs and mucas,
a painters palette
of grisly sugared spawn.
Anvils taking liberties with paper
as razors overcome the lillies;
more ripened bells for hell
crushed under cancers,
fleeced by melanoma -
young dead
baubels of infection.
The gruesome call of misery
rings over heaving skin
and subtle blood stars settle amongst
iron weighted freckles.
Scream at delicate defences
while anguish unfolds
wreaking villanous ends in matted pores...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Monday 22 February 2010
Tea Creatures For The Piss Monestry
Goddamned A.A.
hell to its bubble packaged rules!
Body slam those motherf**kers
into the bastard sand,
hail calamity on that son of a bitch A.A.
and screw its kwm ba ya.
Dear Zeus stab its cotton shillings
with pillars of flaming bourbon,
blend their bile ridden message
with gin on ice.
Goddamned A.A.
Let me see you lift tea
as gracefully and honestly
as I lift a beer,
Goddamned A.A.
cream death camps for the pickled crazies...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
hell to its bubble packaged rules!
Body slam those motherf**kers
into the bastard sand,
hail calamity on that son of a bitch A.A.
and screw its kwm ba ya.
Dear Zeus stab its cotton shillings
with pillars of flaming bourbon,
blend their bile ridden message
with gin on ice.
Goddamned A.A.
Let me see you lift tea
as gracefully and honestly
as I lift a beer,
Goddamned A.A.
cream death camps for the pickled crazies...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Friday 29 January 2010
The Last Death Of Me
No memories from sharp edges
shall chisel this wax heart,
or clog these frantic veins.
Peace will find the circus
and flame,
and in the End a wild boy
with carnival binges
will know Silence.
Every devil must beat tantrums
and quiet days be known.
The last pain
a final coffin nail,
the last of the last.
All fever
every bone of trauma
meets its End
come sunny days.
Fury is a frail god
to the emblem of horror,
sometimes there is thunder in mice
and calm.
The unbreakable weak.
No more days of glass
should there be,
or blood whispers.
As sober as graveyards
the boar must find comfort
in a cotton babylon.
In serenity
must the monster find
its bed.
Wild dawns must be forgotten,
angels do not carry
the burden of Sin very well.
Hairy antics bruise their milk
and loaded herbs shatter clarity.
When the bomb is dropped
bad sores will scatter
disappearing into mud,
and riot shall have a new halo...
@Steven Francis poems 2008
shall chisel this wax heart,
or clog these frantic veins.
Peace will find the circus
and flame,
and in the End a wild boy
with carnival binges
will know Silence.
Every devil must beat tantrums
and quiet days be known.
The last pain
a final coffin nail,
the last of the last.
All fever
every bone of trauma
meets its End
come sunny days.
Fury is a frail god
to the emblem of horror,
sometimes there is thunder in mice
and calm.
The unbreakable weak.
No more days of glass
should there be,
or blood whispers.
As sober as graveyards
the boar must find comfort
in a cotton babylon.
In serenity
must the monster find
its bed.
Wild dawns must be forgotten,
angels do not carry
the burden of Sin very well.
Hairy antics bruise their milk
and loaded herbs shatter clarity.
When the bomb is dropped
bad sores will scatter
disappearing into mud,
and riot shall have a new halo...
@Steven Francis poems 2008
Hedonist & Sasquatch
May weather brings lambs
to daisy hems,
sunshine twists on bracelets
like pond skaters skipping over trout.
Afternoon ice cream
jellybeans on cheeks,
there is no cauldron more glorious or alive
than a river in Spring gloss.
Streak of light
putting ghosts in cribs
and nudging lurking shadow into the mouth
of Venus.
Frosted glasses of plum wine
spill over hampers of mutton and berries,
as damsels in undress grope in barns
like excited lizards on railway sleepers.
Neither bully nor Death
has a page in this scene;
jam scones on a Sunday teatime
swat the hammerheads into gasoline coma.
Dried mud paths lead to a
mullet brown harbour,
where chip shops and plastic buckets
turn the air into a potent fog,
pickled lungs never been so glad
tho’ never as full as memories eye.
Those furnace fields still ablaze
long after the gates fell.
Western man in a painting
from the East…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
to daisy hems,
sunshine twists on bracelets
like pond skaters skipping over trout.
Afternoon ice cream
jellybeans on cheeks,
there is no cauldron more glorious or alive
than a river in Spring gloss.
Streak of light
putting ghosts in cribs
and nudging lurking shadow into the mouth
of Venus.
Frosted glasses of plum wine
spill over hampers of mutton and berries,
as damsels in undress grope in barns
like excited lizards on railway sleepers.
Neither bully nor Death
has a page in this scene;
jam scones on a Sunday teatime
swat the hammerheads into gasoline coma.
Dried mud paths lead to a
mullet brown harbour,
where chip shops and plastic buckets
turn the air into a potent fog,
pickled lungs never been so glad
tho’ never as full as memories eye.
Those furnace fields still ablaze
long after the gates fell.
Western man in a painting
from the East…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Sabre Tooth Sky
Today was not for dying,
no shadow man or beast
gained a drop of blood,
no rigid varnish stained a soul.
Death forgotten in Death,
this day was not for dying.
Rest now in your Lavender bed,
untouched by hooded lights.
Settle like a cwtch
and shake away the peppered bone
that chains us to our sin and sorrow.
The dangerous art of life
left far behind.
Today was not for dying.
Turn from blackening.
The raven has no calling
to your song,
no red in blood or coals
have purchase on your delight.
Step quickly into Saphire fields,
this day was not for dying.
A greater part of Love
again sheds its mad flesh,
dropping muscled furies like anchors
into a gentle froth.
Smile from your scrolled seat
as serpents and sores are banished
to mortal print.
Death was never near.
Today was not for dying...
@Steven Francis poems 2008
For my Mother, Susan Francis
Life has never been Lived as full as yours.
no shadow man or beast
gained a drop of blood,
no rigid varnish stained a soul.
Death forgotten in Death,
this day was not for dying.
Rest now in your Lavender bed,
untouched by hooded lights.
Settle like a cwtch
and shake away the peppered bone
that chains us to our sin and sorrow.
The dangerous art of life
left far behind.
Today was not for dying.
Turn from blackening.
The raven has no calling
to your song,
no red in blood or coals
have purchase on your delight.
Step quickly into Saphire fields,
this day was not for dying.
A greater part of Love
again sheds its mad flesh,
dropping muscled furies like anchors
into a gentle froth.
Smile from your scrolled seat
as serpents and sores are banished
to mortal print.
Death was never near.
Today was not for dying...
@Steven Francis poems 2008
For my Mother, Susan Francis
Life has never been Lived as full as yours.
A New Land For Early Morn (Alainn Tir)
Along bearded roads we barrel
past sunset rusted chippys
and stale graffiti;
past the drunkards lair,
heading toward the sea at 2am
where graves are not as quiet,
or earth as thick.
Buzzards hand us to gulls
as roads give way to waves,
and a orange glow of the ferry port
tilts us closer to heather fringes.
Over mighty, boiling water
a fearsome soup,
we sail on the edges of dawn,
seduced by faithful promises
only Eire could give wing.
Land of bailead!
Such potent beauty to assault
the human frame,
so genorous a land to strangers.
God speed the engines
that shudder under feet
like a Kraken itself taking us
across the leather smacked seas;
pulling toward rising shores
with welcome bosom and froth.
Oh starry Gaelic soil,
a honeycomb for bards
and fitting bed for heroes,
our ship approaches.
The water shrugs off its black skin
and trails sink behind dawn;
beyond gangplank into hearts alive
where wakes rejoice unfazed by limit...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
past sunset rusted chippys
and stale graffiti;
past the drunkards lair,
heading toward the sea at 2am
where graves are not as quiet,
or earth as thick.
Buzzards hand us to gulls
as roads give way to waves,
and a orange glow of the ferry port
tilts us closer to heather fringes.
Over mighty, boiling water
a fearsome soup,
we sail on the edges of dawn,
seduced by faithful promises
only Eire could give wing.
Land of bailead!
Such potent beauty to assault
the human frame,
so genorous a land to strangers.
God speed the engines
that shudder under feet
like a Kraken itself taking us
across the leather smacked seas;
pulling toward rising shores
with welcome bosom and froth.
Oh starry Gaelic soil,
a honeycomb for bards
and fitting bed for heroes,
our ship approaches.
The water shrugs off its black skin
and trails sink behind dawn;
beyond gangplank into hearts alive
where wakes rejoice unfazed by limit...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Friday 15 January 2010
Pellets for Swallows and Pike
Watch Death and bands of dying;
the bird stutters in the dust
the wolf sings into darkness,
and rabbits charge into the hood
like drunks on holy orders.
But the fly is most game
in its shroud,
when it drops like a punch to oak
and kicks on fire,
as its wings like chainsaws on its spine
grow slowly still in laps...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
the bird stutters in the dust
the wolf sings into darkness,
and rabbits charge into the hood
like drunks on holy orders.
But the fly is most game
in its shroud,
when it drops like a punch to oak
and kicks on fire,
as its wings like chainsaws on its spine
grow slowly still in laps...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Kung Fu/Bamboo Kiss
Power to satchel eye master
as the jigsaw ballet trips
to orders of the mandolin,
razor muscle super shield.
Mystic tricks from mortals
blow away feeble poseurs.
Let justice be done
before an audience of gentle dragons
in this beautiful manicured
sober art...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
as the jigsaw ballet trips
to orders of the mandolin,
razor muscle super shield.
Mystic tricks from mortals
blow away feeble poseurs.
Let justice be done
before an audience of gentle dragons
in this beautiful manicured
sober art...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Daffodil In Ice Melted By Night
Summer crocodile wallow
in blood poses,
the children of Falstaff
love danger.
Wander on through green tipped lanes
toward butter and string music
and simmer as the sun
turns misery into cider chrome.
Yellow stalk raise the damp!
Disease has no patrol in cinder gardens
bonnetted by foxgloves,
the razor machine has no mascot here,
where gentleman die at night
cracked by the weight
of a bloated moon...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
in blood poses,
the children of Falstaff
love danger.
Wander on through green tipped lanes
toward butter and string music
and simmer as the sun
turns misery into cider chrome.
Yellow stalk raise the damp!
Disease has no patrol in cinder gardens
bonnetted by foxgloves,
the razor machine has no mascot here,
where gentleman die at night
cracked by the weight
of a bloated moon...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
B.I.D (Beautiful In Dying)
The horizon
sharp as scarab spines
hides a coil of clouds
beneath its green and thirsty belt,
but small is the slew approaching
compared to the wild ways of sinew.
A crazy mess of bones
holding death in human form
like a dreamcatcher woven from skin.
Glutton the air until the last rattle,
then give up to Azrael
with sober spirit
and ribcage neatly folded...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
sharp as scarab spines
hides a coil of clouds
beneath its green and thirsty belt,
but small is the slew approaching
compared to the wild ways of sinew.
A crazy mess of bones
holding death in human form
like a dreamcatcher woven from skin.
Glutton the air until the last rattle,
then give up to Azrael
with sober spirit
and ribcage neatly folded...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Get Your Finger Out Of My Shoe
Step out of my shadow baby flower,
go rest in chocolate cradles
because I am a blood wasted street boy,
a fiend, a fisherman of dirty stories
where light is long forgotten.
Memories suffer in this brain damage,
only vandal actions remain.
Go dance on rainbows some place else,
go plant happy sticks in merry sunshine
and raise the dollars there.
I want nothing save my pretty circus
and golden sleeves,
a bed of bat skin
to lay the nightmares.
Damaged goods stay beautiful,
theres no fun in California smiles or hymns,
these eyes want gore,
lots of merry gore and tragedy.
Praise indeed to guld thugs, blades and heroin...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
go rest in chocolate cradles
because I am a blood wasted street boy,
a fiend, a fisherman of dirty stories
where light is long forgotten.
Memories suffer in this brain damage,
only vandal actions remain.
Go dance on rainbows some place else,
go plant happy sticks in merry sunshine
and raise the dollars there.
I want nothing save my pretty circus
and golden sleeves,
a bed of bat skin
to lay the nightmares.
Damaged goods stay beautiful,
theres no fun in California smiles or hymns,
these eyes want gore,
lots of merry gore and tragedy.
Praise indeed to guld thugs, blades and heroin...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Bald Light (On/Off)
Boiled suits
lined up on Domino road,
aware of nothing but stagnant fantasy
and jaded kids.
Straight backed for the kill
like black goats on cheap wine,
you have it all played out
yet hold nothing in those blistered claws.
The chase of the dream
blinds like froth in a beer glass
but the hangover is deadly,
blowing hearts to the size of shopping trolleys
and keeping them from honesty.
Dull is the strolling wax work afraid of fire,
there are no escapes on that road.
Fear doesn't leave too many footsteps
on the minotaur,
but often leaves Man caged by letterboxes
and Sunday afternoons.
The boozers and perverts
have all the answers,
their gods lead them through broken hearted capers
to a sincere wisdom not seen in city windows.
Honour and trust come from cell blocks
or tiny roadside kennels,
away from the marble cold of church pews
where monster hunts for monster...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
lined up on Domino road,
aware of nothing but stagnant fantasy
and jaded kids.
Straight backed for the kill
like black goats on cheap wine,
you have it all played out
yet hold nothing in those blistered claws.
The chase of the dream
blinds like froth in a beer glass
but the hangover is deadly,
blowing hearts to the size of shopping trolleys
and keeping them from honesty.
Dull is the strolling wax work afraid of fire,
there are no escapes on that road.
Fear doesn't leave too many footsteps
on the minotaur,
but often leaves Man caged by letterboxes
and Sunday afternoons.
The boozers and perverts
have all the answers,
their gods lead them through broken hearted capers
to a sincere wisdom not seen in city windows.
Honour and trust come from cell blocks
or tiny roadside kennels,
away from the marble cold of church pews
where monster hunts for monster...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Aluminium Thorns Sunk Like Teeth In Mildew
I am cold hearted thorn
of many faces
and where muscle is plenty I grow,
fall to me thin as a rapier
swollen fairy on my spider legged boughs.
There is little comfort
on seas of anaesthesia
where blood is as curdled as milk.
Laughter cowers in delirious shadows
and bone turns frail like silk.
Tongue in silence
clad roughly in white,
fat with water but dry from drugs.
Taste vinegar sweat on sunken cheeks
before a shroud becomes a blanket of mud.
The mess of death
with vulgar stains
lurks in crisp white creases of gore.
Parade the sick on rubber stilts
la maquina del amor.
But peace can fall
upon the murder fields
and dust grisly tics away,
because suffering is just another face
on a different kind of day.
There lies hidden maps
beneath the surface,
beyond the reach of lipstick and gold.
Sink into the arms of light
where brittle hearts grow bold...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
of many faces
and where muscle is plenty I grow,
fall to me thin as a rapier
swollen fairy on my spider legged boughs.
There is little comfort
on seas of anaesthesia
where blood is as curdled as milk.
Laughter cowers in delirious shadows
and bone turns frail like silk.
Tongue in silence
clad roughly in white,
fat with water but dry from drugs.
Taste vinegar sweat on sunken cheeks
before a shroud becomes a blanket of mud.
The mess of death
with vulgar stains
lurks in crisp white creases of gore.
Parade the sick on rubber stilts
la maquina del amor.
But peace can fall
upon the murder fields
and dust grisly tics away,
because suffering is just another face
on a different kind of day.
There lies hidden maps
beneath the surface,
beyond the reach of lipstick and gold.
Sink into the arms of light
where brittle hearts grow bold...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Suicide From The Edge Of A Star
We blind dolls rotten in sleep
never see the fleshy strings of Love,
the fat electric clouds
and bullshit cameras
keep us hid from Summer.
Voodoo eagles have our guts and skulls
to feed cherubs
and entertain the Damaged.
All of us
little snorts of liver candles,
too weak for heavy petting
are worm holed into deathly arteries.
We cannot piss or shave for the clutter,
a drunkard everyone.
And beyond the filth,
away from septic pages and idols
Love flirts with us,
daring us to reach for its stocking tops
and tear a moment of peace
from its milky thigh.
All monks and rubies sail above
in celestial pantries stuffed with olives and beer,
roast boar and wine
whilst we poor hungry piglets
trade skin on the shores of Cocytus,
swapping dignity with vulgar pearls.
The womb needs a gaurdian
to stop the reaper breaking sweat on rednecks.
We down here inthis terrible grip of gimmicks
must learn to Live again,
learn to ignore the empty sounds
of dead ogres who still perform
but we never will.
Gutless in mega stomachs,
carrying fried baubels on sorry shoulders,
walking no taller than scorpions
but without the glorious sting.
A mighty bother to have come so far
to find everything sane has gone.
A skeletal world skidding on its nerves
which keep the sober straight
and the rebels warm,
bourbon smashed on rocks.
So different a band of brothers now
than those on Henry's tail,
our inspirations all on numbered sticks,
tongues rolling in fried chicken.
Everything needs rehab and Buddha landscapes
or we squander it all like bullies
and go mad from lipstick and Hollywood,
facing death without sun or Saint
to guide us to the grave...
@Steven Francis Poems 2009
never see the fleshy strings of Love,
the fat electric clouds
and bullshit cameras
keep us hid from Summer.
Voodoo eagles have our guts and skulls
to feed cherubs
and entertain the Damaged.
All of us
little snorts of liver candles,
too weak for heavy petting
are worm holed into deathly arteries.
We cannot piss or shave for the clutter,
a drunkard everyone.
And beyond the filth,
away from septic pages and idols
Love flirts with us,
daring us to reach for its stocking tops
and tear a moment of peace
from its milky thigh.
All monks and rubies sail above
in celestial pantries stuffed with olives and beer,
roast boar and wine
whilst we poor hungry piglets
trade skin on the shores of Cocytus,
swapping dignity with vulgar pearls.
The womb needs a gaurdian
to stop the reaper breaking sweat on rednecks.
We down here inthis terrible grip of gimmicks
must learn to Live again,
learn to ignore the empty sounds
of dead ogres who still perform
but we never will.
Gutless in mega stomachs,
carrying fried baubels on sorry shoulders,
walking no taller than scorpions
but without the glorious sting.
A mighty bother to have come so far
to find everything sane has gone.
A skeletal world skidding on its nerves
which keep the sober straight
and the rebels warm,
bourbon smashed on rocks.
So different a band of brothers now
than those on Henry's tail,
our inspirations all on numbered sticks,
tongues rolling in fried chicken.
Everything needs rehab and Buddha landscapes
or we squander it all like bullies
and go mad from lipstick and Hollywood,
facing death without sun or Saint
to guide us to the grave...
@Steven Francis Poems 2009
God Send For The Devil
Violence moves without puss inflated ceremony,
it has no force or golden nectar
but soldiers on through
hooded houses and deathly wards
disturbing rhythms of content.
No bullshit on its collar
or jackpot under its heels,
knuckles turn to talons in the hunt.
Rage dignified,
a ton punch in church.
Sing for the cascabel
and giddy lizards,
only poison will ever cure tantrums,
fire best fought through fury.
Smog in sunny graves
tear angels lungs to silk bonnets,
a million skulls cry for the better part of good.
It needs disease this slutty stunted world
because horrors die quicker in the jaws of brutality.
Gather the mad and whisper them war songs
so that twilight chains snap
and fist becomes flower,
crazy gulls do not hear nonsense.
The trick to cheating death
is to become crazier than Death itself.
Black heart pigs
warm their kidneys on wine
while toasting cripples
over the burning bodies of the sane.
Illness cannot find seed
in fleshy blankets of melanoma,
nor does war end with a feather or sonnet.
Double the dragon,
requiescat in pace...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
it has no force or golden nectar
but soldiers on through
hooded houses and deathly wards
disturbing rhythms of content.
No bullshit on its collar
or jackpot under its heels,
knuckles turn to talons in the hunt.
Rage dignified,
a ton punch in church.
Sing for the cascabel
and giddy lizards,
only poison will ever cure tantrums,
fire best fought through fury.
Smog in sunny graves
tear angels lungs to silk bonnets,
a million skulls cry for the better part of good.
It needs disease this slutty stunted world
because horrors die quicker in the jaws of brutality.
Gather the mad and whisper them war songs
so that twilight chains snap
and fist becomes flower,
crazy gulls do not hear nonsense.
The trick to cheating death
is to become crazier than Death itself.
Black heart pigs
warm their kidneys on wine
while toasting cripples
over the burning bodies of the sane.
Illness cannot find seed
in fleshy blankets of melanoma,
nor does war end with a feather or sonnet.
Double the dragon,
requiescat in pace...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
The Grave Mischief Of Lady Betty
Bloodthirsty Bet what have you done?
The stranger dead
your only son.
Taught him money was warm as gin,
and greed it was
that put a blade in him.
Time passed slowly in Roscommon gaol,
fear the scaffold's grip
and hemp pigtail.
She was not alone on her final night,
and all condemned
cursed the morning light.
On the chosen day no hangman came,
but Death was eager
so upped its game.
As Bet stepped onto the wooden cloud
she removed the noose
and said aloud.
'Spare my neck and I'll hang the others!'
And so it was,
she swung her convict brothers.
No souls it seemed could quench fair Bet,
the Irish bloodhound
who slipped her net...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
The stranger dead
your only son.
Taught him money was warm as gin,
and greed it was
that put a blade in him.
Time passed slowly in Roscommon gaol,
fear the scaffold's grip
and hemp pigtail.
She was not alone on her final night,
and all condemned
cursed the morning light.
On the chosen day no hangman came,
but Death was eager
so upped its game.
As Bet stepped onto the wooden cloud
she removed the noose
and said aloud.
'Spare my neck and I'll hang the others!'
And so it was,
she swung her convict brothers.
No souls it seemed could quench fair Bet,
the Irish bloodhound
who slipped her net...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Colony Of Beaten
Worm lives inside
the liver of heroes,
splashing like a porcupine
in trifle grease.
Illuminate fatal sun
inside;
choices made by merry go rounds.
His nest made of dandelion fangs
sits like an ink stain
in cupped hands,
it never lets rest get away.
Or murder.
The Worm is sleeve to inspiration,
spindly legged things;
he loves herds and applause.
He loves panic music
which take him to the heart.
The sulpherous bile
is not always warm;
when madmen forget to think
it curdles.
Worm is not a victim,
those coyote tattoos
mark him well against curled mouths.
On through muscle,
those slabs thirsty for glory
but quick to be sliced on vanity;
on through lungs
where colonies of scruffy fish
bicker amongst rivulets of filth.
Onward slides Worm
on a mission of mechanics;
to solder ambition to the heel
and plant fear in the marrow.
Flesh makes grand fire
when candles heat the skull.
There are maps of neon Chaos
nailed inside the sloppy brain,
and Worm devours them
before hairy tics can lose Order
in pockets of the unconscience.
Worm knows the sin of Man
more than Man knows his own lips;
bloated lips cannot be trusted,
too much tricks gel in sugar
and he must stun giddy soldiers
before Lust arrives
to sow septic cataracts.
Lights along the spine
warn of danger,
nerves tuned to different waves,
the seas beneath the earth.
And this is wher Worm is master;
a streak of Life
wallowing in the fat of Man.
Bald minnow soothing soul and engine
of leviathans,
until dust is ripe for feeding.
Sandstone melanomas amongst bracken
where invertebrae has ministry...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
the liver of heroes,
splashing like a porcupine
in trifle grease.
Illuminate fatal sun
inside;
choices made by merry go rounds.
His nest made of dandelion fangs
sits like an ink stain
in cupped hands,
it never lets rest get away.
Or murder.
The Worm is sleeve to inspiration,
spindly legged things;
he loves herds and applause.
He loves panic music
which take him to the heart.
The sulpherous bile
is not always warm;
when madmen forget to think
it curdles.
Worm is not a victim,
those coyote tattoos
mark him well against curled mouths.
On through muscle,
those slabs thirsty for glory
but quick to be sliced on vanity;
on through lungs
where colonies of scruffy fish
bicker amongst rivulets of filth.
Onward slides Worm
on a mission of mechanics;
to solder ambition to the heel
and plant fear in the marrow.
Flesh makes grand fire
when candles heat the skull.
There are maps of neon Chaos
nailed inside the sloppy brain,
and Worm devours them
before hairy tics can lose Order
in pockets of the unconscience.
Worm knows the sin of Man
more than Man knows his own lips;
bloated lips cannot be trusted,
too much tricks gel in sugar
and he must stun giddy soldiers
before Lust arrives
to sow septic cataracts.
Lights along the spine
warn of danger,
nerves tuned to different waves,
the seas beneath the earth.
And this is wher Worm is master;
a streak of Life
wallowing in the fat of Man.
Bald minnow soothing soul and engine
of leviathans,
until dust is ripe for feeding.
Sandstone melanomas amongst bracken
where invertebrae has ministry...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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