Longer Run of Lust in Games

F**k.
Or Kcuf;
for narrow eyes and slender ends
this bearded scorpion
wants to Kcuf the all in ALL.
The N
or P
the J,
the T
the H,
letters all,
maybe love in a cramped mind...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Footwork

We live
we play energetic crab lined beats
and tip our shadows to the puddles;
we drive and cook
we love,
think ourselves brave at music strokes
and we die.
There is no more to it,
no more thought or philosophies
we kiss we walk
we stroke the cat and die...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Poem To Lyric To Music

Tome Jangles
and merry sleight hands of crowds
followed ink slicks
across white sands to fret boards
where the devil lurked in muse shrouds.
Pages glowed in times of Man,
the sorrow, greed and joy
spread like harpies wings.

Prolific nightrain of a senseless breed
they sing and nail tales of death,
glory beds on foggy shores.
Strum bang jango!
Hail words and candy chorus
schemed bands from nettles in their wisdom
their joy bound lifts the hook.
A truth in streams
breath in hardcore lullabies,
trance to anaesthetise sombre hooded heads...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Brat News and the Abrasion of Life

Mad to bored inside peeling walls of four,
emotions which have me cornered
switch from knuckles to sky,
jabbing ripe solitude into this dusty, drunk again throat.
Terrestrial fields beyond sickle eyed vessels
amplify the bratty news which is less than mulch to me,
with its undercurrent sneering
on a born again electric never ending sheet.

Whistle boy and hide thy blessings
for in toy cities sincerity is seldom heard
and all there is are echoes from tourist hearts
who could never die for you.
Beast child and lizard-like
the first and last of blood
seeping from pendulum flowers...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Gretchen

What is in a name?
An adder or chameleon,
poised to mark the world,
earth a solid hand.
To pull a title from toybox
from idea to Gretchen.

A bad name,
an evil bad name of wasps and hemlock,
that G hatchet falls like owls on shrews,
fear the Gretchen
that boiling mad witch.
She seethes on lips
making demons proud,
oh Gretchen of the masks...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

August Wales

And as the loaded red beast dipped
to tag a sincere, sickl'd dawn,
there arose my hiraeth
and I was home in Wales
in Carmarthen chains...

© Steven Francis poems 2012