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