The powerful
walk over,
vagrants kiss,
babies vomit
and graffiti stains.
Ladies skip
girls flaunt,
drunks scrape
and waltz,
whilst madmen kick.
Teenagers spit
murderers run,
the penniless search
and fat boys thunder.
Perverts hunt
corpses hug,
showers suffocate
as the sun curdles.
Onward to horizons
and dislocated trolleys...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Friday, 28 August 2009
Puddle Chops
The bathroom mirror sees within
a hoarde of ghosts
beneath the skin.
Keen asylum for kinks and creases
battered reflection
in a hundred pieces.
Sober glass upon the wall
confess to me
the sins of all.
Gentlemen and ladies dare
to spill perversions
when you are there.
Secret host of many masks
guide razors on
their hungover tasks.
Hide all wrinkles without trace
bring to life
a haggard face.
Young and old in front of thee
as naked as
a willow tree.
Frame the pose over soapy sinks
beautiful image
on a frozen rink.
Loyal stamp on wizened pages
life in chapters
on shiny stages.
Darkest wishes shared in colour
a different face
on every hour...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
a hoarde of ghosts
beneath the skin.
Keen asylum for kinks and creases
battered reflection
in a hundred pieces.
Sober glass upon the wall
confess to me
the sins of all.
Gentlemen and ladies dare
to spill perversions
when you are there.
Secret host of many masks
guide razors on
their hungover tasks.
Hide all wrinkles without trace
bring to life
a haggard face.
Young and old in front of thee
as naked as
a willow tree.
Frame the pose over soapy sinks
beautiful image
on a frozen rink.
Loyal stamp on wizened pages
life in chapters
on shiny stages.
Darkest wishes shared in colour
a different face
on every hour...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Bloodology
A parliment of howling dragons
seek sanctuary in flesh,
warm is good
when everything is at end.
And it is,
nothing remains but leftovers;
of madness
of friendship,
all good has gone
like it never was.
Fields without life
song with no heart
and playgrounds rusted into heavy soil,
children long disappeared
into offices and hangovers.
Mercy be to memories
that ignite a fleeting comfort
for wanderers to shelter
when grave wax becomes sweet.
Everything has fled now,
dreams have grown whiskers and claws
to protect and disguise on harsh roads.
The insane have sobered up,
attitudes been harnessed,
nothing is left of lust...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
seek sanctuary in flesh,
warm is good
when everything is at end.
And it is,
nothing remains but leftovers;
of madness
of friendship,
all good has gone
like it never was.
Fields without life
song with no heart
and playgrounds rusted into heavy soil,
children long disappeared
into offices and hangovers.
Mercy be to memories
that ignite a fleeting comfort
for wanderers to shelter
when grave wax becomes sweet.
Everything has fled now,
dreams have grown whiskers and claws
to protect and disguise on harsh roads.
The insane have sobered up,
attitudes been harnessed,
nothing is left of lust...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Funeral Mad
Black is all
all dirt,
rat pitch in soul tar.
Dark corners
corner all,
shrouded ribs in glass shadow.
Cold in mourning
bittersweet the memory song,
love hard
until the day folds.
Tanned eyes
milk lips,
beyond the veil
on bat lung horizon.
The dead are not
burning stars,
or satisfied in stone.
In the ground
the maggot is king…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
all dirt,
rat pitch in soul tar.
Dark corners
corner all,
shrouded ribs in glass shadow.
Cold in mourning
bittersweet the memory song,
love hard
until the day folds.
Tanned eyes
milk lips,
beyond the veil
on bat lung horizon.
The dead are not
burning stars,
or satisfied in stone.
In the ground
the maggot is king…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Perhaps (Hopefully)
People can live in worlds unknown
as long as death machines
stay out of sight,
and grim pulses of fear
jerk our footsteps.
Grains of salt
freshen the nerves,
awake
all we are,
earned a page of breath
with a small word of gratitude
to the king Huntsman…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
as long as death machines
stay out of sight,
and grim pulses of fear
jerk our footsteps.
Grains of salt
freshen the nerves,
awake
all we are,
earned a page of breath
with a small word of gratitude
to the king Huntsman…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Leaving Earth To Play A Zombie
No tan for lepers,
the skin has gone on holiday
leaving blood to froth
over gums,
and fall sickly onto the breastbone
weak as fish scales.
Past life, loves
and mistakes
cling like graffiti to well chewed frame.
Flesh is fine for mourning,
a real tent for umpteen miseries
to shelter from time and touch.
The honest look of Man
in the empire of Death…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
the skin has gone on holiday
leaving blood to froth
over gums,
and fall sickly onto the breastbone
weak as fish scales.
Past life, loves
and mistakes
cling like graffiti to well chewed frame.
Flesh is fine for mourning,
a real tent for umpteen miseries
to shelter from time and touch.
The honest look of Man
in the empire of Death…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Boulder Mists
There is too much noise
in silence,
lots of havoc being played
on empty plains,
damage done in hours.
And every second
pulls a different greedy chops.
Imagination HQ,
too fertile a canvas
for quiet to remain intact.
The solitary of ghosts
in death responses,
a cruel kingdom resting
on the shoulders of shepards…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
in silence,
lots of havoc being played
on empty plains,
damage done in hours.
And every second
pulls a different greedy chops.
Imagination HQ,
too fertile a canvas
for quiet to remain intact.
The solitary of ghosts
in death responses,
a cruel kingdom resting
on the shoulders of shepards…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Bambi Inspired A Marshmallow Gut for Jelly Children
Jellyfish do the hickory dance
while pirates save the world
from hell.
Cats whisper to the slain
that death is life,
and we superheroes
come to kill the upset once again.
In cartoon surburbia
inspiration fails the zombies
and the dizzy soft.
Shame on them,
to have such open mouths
and abuse the freedom
by trembling…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
while pirates save the world
from hell.
Cats whisper to the slain
that death is life,
and we superheroes
come to kill the upset once again.
In cartoon surburbia
inspiration fails the zombies
and the dizzy soft.
Shame on them,
to have such open mouths
and abuse the freedom
by trembling…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
The Zero Angels
The sun is running early
on the a.m,
already there are violent shadows
on the edge of my hangover
bringing the Fear back.
Out of a greasy coma I fall
to be surrounded with Life.
The dull bits
the sharp bits,
the bits I choke on
and bang my head on.
The funny bits I use for comfort
and the rest that wear me down.
A new dawn with the same miserable jabs
as yesterday,
and as the calendar gets thinner
bad habits hurt longer,
but without pain there is nothing.
Every day I stretch both liver and heart,
one to cover nagging wails
the other to plug the scars.
There’s no end to it,
a relentless hail of morbid pictures
filling my kindergarden shoes.
I see the Black in black
and blood on white,
even smiles in shades of grey.
But here in this inked canvas
which drapes over my skeleton
like warts on fish,
I see only dirt scenes.
The shreds of life
where bullets shape honesty
and lovebites twist
into heroin scabs.
Not all fun
not all romance,
but princes were made from less…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
on the a.m,
already there are violent shadows
on the edge of my hangover
bringing the Fear back.
Out of a greasy coma I fall
to be surrounded with Life.
The dull bits
the sharp bits,
the bits I choke on
and bang my head on.
The funny bits I use for comfort
and the rest that wear me down.
A new dawn with the same miserable jabs
as yesterday,
and as the calendar gets thinner
bad habits hurt longer,
but without pain there is nothing.
Every day I stretch both liver and heart,
one to cover nagging wails
the other to plug the scars.
There’s no end to it,
a relentless hail of morbid pictures
filling my kindergarden shoes.
I see the Black in black
and blood on white,
even smiles in shades of grey.
But here in this inked canvas
which drapes over my skeleton
like warts on fish,
I see only dirt scenes.
The shreds of life
where bullets shape honesty
and lovebites twist
into heroin scabs.
Not all fun
not all romance,
but princes were made from less…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Giant In A Teacup (Megladon)
Forcing power with palms,
eating halo’s filled with bone.
Shower under fingernail and muscle
the sin of man
becomes obvious,
under the pigment of the subtle.
We know no heroes
in shame of flags.
The giant swallows the earth
of the hellbent,
we stand tall
in the terror mouth…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
eating halo’s filled with bone.
Shower under fingernail and muscle
the sin of man
becomes obvious,
under the pigment of the subtle.
We know no heroes
in shame of flags.
The giant swallows the earth
of the hellbent,
we stand tall
in the terror mouth…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
War (Is My Sheppard)
War is my shepard
blood gifts are what I want.
To lay my enemy down amongst lepers
and madness groves,
filling them with bitter infusions.
In sun waters they repent
there is no freedom for the senseless.
In the shadow of the bark
of cereberus,
I walk guided by red pulses,
beating beneath barbed cysts.
My laments strip the skin
from my tormentors,
and boil their livers in saliva.
My spite be their agony,
vengeance for their unholy tongue.
My veins be the noose around their spirit;
in damnation be annointed.
Surely courage will follow me
throughout trial and temptation,
and victory shall rise
from the pyres of eagles.
And no more bone
shall my enemy have left to sin upon,
no more thirst for evil.
I walk through columns of golden oils
never to be scarred,
into the heart of wisdom fields
and virtue…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
blood gifts are what I want.
To lay my enemy down amongst lepers
and madness groves,
filling them with bitter infusions.
In sun waters they repent
there is no freedom for the senseless.
In the shadow of the bark
of cereberus,
I walk guided by red pulses,
beating beneath barbed cysts.
My laments strip the skin
from my tormentors,
and boil their livers in saliva.
My spite be their agony,
vengeance for their unholy tongue.
My veins be the noose around their spirit;
in damnation be annointed.
Surely courage will follow me
throughout trial and temptation,
and victory shall rise
from the pyres of eagles.
And no more bone
shall my enemy have left to sin upon,
no more thirst for evil.
I walk through columns of golden oils
never to be scarred,
into the heart of wisdom fields
and virtue…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Of Yellow Balconies and Danger
Stirred by flame
splashed with sandshine,
boiled rocks
across fanged wastes.
Navy patch tassled with
eyes of old,
merry the waltz
over opera.
Poison the power
of the worm head.
Walk on glass naked colossus,
Medusa has you stitched…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
splashed with sandshine,
boiled rocks
across fanged wastes.
Navy patch tassled with
eyes of old,
merry the waltz
over opera.
Poison the power
of the worm head.
Walk on glass naked colossus,
Medusa has you stitched…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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
Clock Press On Overdose
The badgers run
under the columns of thunder,
scattering once light falls
onto artery gashes.
Gold chokeholds and blunt teeth
turn ketamine from troughs
into baby meat;
cider ignites deep roots.
Blind from clingfilm
and studded skin,
a dragon hunts the pit
for blazes.
Rotor blades turn to straw
as candy anthems fight for space.
There be tigers
always,
in bottle green forests;
grey cartoons alive
on marble flesh,
we bloodied figures always sink the ill…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
under the columns of thunder,
scattering once light falls
onto artery gashes.
Gold chokeholds and blunt teeth
turn ketamine from troughs
into baby meat;
cider ignites deep roots.
Blind from clingfilm
and studded skin,
a dragon hunts the pit
for blazes.
Rotor blades turn to straw
as candy anthems fight for space.
There be tigers
always,
in bottle green forests;
grey cartoons alive
on marble flesh,
we bloodied figures always sink the ill…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Rain & Oil
Clouds tip their ball bearings into the clockwork
and as steel falls into laps of scarecrows
hurrying to their stretch,
engines rev lifting smoggy fumes of cities
into the peace land.
Water raising oil
to the chin of sleeping cubs,
framing windows of cluttered horizons
onto walls of wild woodland.
Iron scenes riding on the diesel
cutting through haybarns,
pulling on the tail of the free walkers.
Busy scents ransack nostrils
bury streetlight in the mud…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
and as steel falls into laps of scarecrows
hurrying to their stretch,
engines rev lifting smoggy fumes of cities
into the peace land.
Water raising oil
to the chin of sleeping cubs,
framing windows of cluttered horizons
onto walls of wild woodland.
Iron scenes riding on the diesel
cutting through haybarns,
pulling on the tail of the free walkers.
Busy scents ransack nostrils
bury streetlight in the mud…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
In Crayon: Cemetery
And the chaos beats you to it
cobwebbed pictures make it real.
Deathly dying and the dead
there’s a defiance to it
falling into soil.
Graveyard summer
holiday of worms,
there is fever in the bones tonight
we sick,
we merry sick…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
cobwebbed pictures make it real.
Deathly dying and the dead
there’s a defiance to it
falling into soil.
Graveyard summer
holiday of worms,
there is fever in the bones tonight
we sick,
we merry sick…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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