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