Always The Loathing

God forgive the hate,
my intolerance for those of quilted tongue
but by my heart I loathe thee!
The jellied arrogance of mice children,
those wilted lop~sided faces
that utter hollow words fanned by scabbed victories.
Long dead the winning,
long gone your wretched spirits...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

The Sour Storms

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

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

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

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

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.

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