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
Friday, 15 January 2010
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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