Fern Hill

At 1:49 you will see the esteemed Mr Jakes reading a line from Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas for the 100 year anniversary. Diolch/Thanks for watching, it was an honour to take part.

The Drink and I

5 Second Poem for Poet's Day

Today is National Poetry Day so here is a quick recital of a piece that came straight from the top of my head for the camera. No notes, no thought, simply press RECORD and this emerged. It sounds like I say "Tides" rwice but the second time is TIMES. Just something different I decided to do rather than rehash something written months ago. Makes poetry more interesting, more alive I feel.

Enjoy!

Steven xx

Reading from BratNews

I am currently working on a new play, "BratNews", which has been inspired by the internet and its many forums. Its still in its very early stages but in attempt to beat to death, I decided to put this up in case, God forbid (and I hope im not jinxing myself here) something happened to me before it was finished. I would hate to have this disappear without trace. And even if it is only the title and bare bones idea, that 'makes it', then that is better than nothing.

Diolch/ thanks

Steven

At the Farm Window

The horizon sulks with a gallows on its back
hanging dead wood and sinking stars
as curried clouds clamour for the night.
In my left eye, daffodils and newborn rabbits
cower from deadly weeds and satanic looking wolves
frozen in my glassy right.
Nature, as far away as television had intended,
halts granite ravens with mossy riffs
for butter lilies to rise from dew,
the morning glass.

A sightless explosion,
mother seeds in union
shattering the window with a mortal blast,
kneel deep in those wild, clove prayers...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Throat for Porno

C*cks in silver sheaths
guiding lights to thorny aisle
as clothes look on
(their legs broken by moral foxes)
crumpled from too many triple censors and litter puppy halos.
Banish XXX fiends to hell,
send them to daytime television
and let Poundland scriptures
wrench their groins from penny sands.

Oh my God this boy watches porno!
Wrench his slow worm guts
and toss them to hell,
lest chance befalls the devil's dick
to muddy virgin coves.
Run! Run! Flee from flesh!
Strip it from next door thighs of virtue,
shield natural modesty from obvious monsters...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Politics, Thanks

There is no need
for later thanks
or awards for pints poured
after ages flow.
No need for small dicks
in shallow holes,
tongues tossed by eager crowds,
or postponed portraits
that lead to masturbation.
The wolves will come when all is done
when the wait is over,
and words ignored by drainpipe friends
soon become gospel through green spires...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Remembrance View

This thing kept spinning a soft yarn in my mind, like a butter burn etching its tune into my brain. Thought I would shre the damned thing and see if it infects others.

Over Solemn Walls

Got to name the perfect dead
when once they lay that indulgent head,
sin looks no good on silent frame
hang a halo on saintly names.

No more fault, no lies to tell
the bad it sinks into the well,
bones begone under graveyard stair
ignore the fire that got you there...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Wake Now, Horizon

Come 100 years
swift on a minutes trail
where footprints lead to blind valleys,
time is simmering.
Wild nettle haven ,
a childhood deja-vu,
time all hallowed ground
already sunk when we were kings.

And time not so eternal
rises in our throats
as we twist busy necks for better views,
to choke those sanguine dreams
of hemlock lords and angels.

Man leaves without whisper
as mortal bones care not to scorch the shilling earth.
Into scented trenches fall,
reminding nought of favoured hymns
or food.
Our mark here fades
as tails leave for the cancer doors...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Alko Instrukto

Behead those lion heads
who bathe on lotion sands
and twist the fire to replace yoga
with wretching.
Take away the skin plug
and water gags;
install grave
cover with masticated gauze
and proceed, pro seed!

Oily cheating wounds stunned by shame.
Lo behold the bruised flytraps
as heads roll and teeth chip,
a surge toward the liquid gallows.
these mourning arms need execrise in craving.

And when all the tales
lay spent like barking dames,
the autumn bandsaws shreik quiet
at the oblivion of blowfish feet...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Gizzzard Yaga

Frog Morton
frog Morton
lead the boys to their dune,
witches on stars
those goombas on ink
frog healer dance to your tune.

Ferret heart
ferret heart
straight until ya bend,
leather giblets
from grilled moles
carnivorous sonnets to the end...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Scarred by Bambi

Scarred by Bambi
as a child,
tricked into believing
that soft is the wild.
Oh idle wishes
of a Disney mind,
those yoghurt souls
fooled and blind.

Shun burger pools
with thy lily hearts,
think flower toothed lions
and candy stars.
Hop and skip
to the panthers lair,
care not for lost limbs
which take you there.

Amen Amen
wild is the God,
who put His creatures
on mortal sod.
And two by two
those animals follow
'Fluffy' and 'Tufty'
your blood will swallow...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

The Banyan Tree

The Banyan tree!
The Banyan tree!
Pray to never see the Banyan tree!
Where shadows dance in locust fits
and werewolf silhouettes prey
on those pray.
Empire of ghosts
orchestra of undead
worship the gods to hatchet the tree.

The Banyan tree!
The Banyan tree!
Darkness holds the devil
in the Banyan tree.
And where she roots
anfgels fall
because the devil holds darkness
in the Banyan Tree...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Burry Port

The Leather Ass of a Hollywood Dracula

Stars, all born to fade
as knives cry victory in Mercedes footwells
under the shadow of bitter, neon columns
where fame is just a ring~tailed cur.
Golden gods shaped with the sincerity of tabloid pus,
that lottery of demons for kid minded outlaws.

Burger joints and L.A.X,
hanger of the damned.
Glamour zombies miming a perfect bad world
of love and murder,
its a dull blast this bomb.
Hollywood, HollyGrief
the birdman of a dislocated Alcatraz...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Funeral Skirt

Oh raven sheathed ankles
fuelling abandoned passion,
as I drop these eyes
not in mourning but sincere lust,
to imagine rowing the boat uphill.
Drop the hem
and let us raise a bomb together...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Jade of Night

I only speak with family in dreams
where eyes are flat and voices low.
No longer trees go by in seconds flight,
life is hesitant where tombstones grow.

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Grimace (Or Not for Dogs)

Stay that heel
assassin of night,
dont make me dead just yet
for my head is too full of random errands
to be the death I must eventually become.
And while the minds eye tumbles over boggy meadows
my heart slices the khardoma sun,
needing one more blink
to breathe before I suffocate.

And then after sips of maple syrup
will I fold my cadaver
into fountains of earthy whiskers
and give my morbid hand to the tantrum shore...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Friend Of Waves

Rag doll bounce
'God help me' words
as you sink like a mole
beneath watery hole,
goodnight sweet forget-a-lot
adieu.

Bikini innards
twitch zombie strobe,

heil heil the summit floor!
For sale
forget the ale,
smorgasbord mama
help!

Revelations 999
flip six six six,

kidney Dostoyevsky.
Werewolf smiles
bedouin miles,
reap the
Titanic, sink...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Woman

Batter the crust
while souls soft as sea anemones
grind around plotted ankles

faceless.

Heels commanding chalk sermons.
The heron wails...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Hounded By Sonnets As Death Gives Chase

"And the poet Ste..."
No not yet
please no radio nails tonight,
this morning
whatever it is.
There is much to do still,
tea to brew,
ghosts to chase
and a thousand other scenes to set.
Please don't kill the rat just yet.

"His last words...."
I beg ye invaders of a tragic soul
not now, hold off,
my head too full of random errands
to be the death I must eventually become.
More songs for machete anthems
more bitter ink for sun....

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Propaganda to Electric Hives

The sense of man
the madness of mankind
held fast in nail'd broth,
drowning courtesy of electric currents
of clouded ignorance and haste.

Super highway Messiah of Torquemada shores
untwist the mystery in red
from Herod's robe;
spit news of the world
and raise the spirit of bubonic nations
that wills glass to move.

Stale time, stalled into space
and stagnant beyond days,
lethargy,
unwashed frailty
used as weapon...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Olympic Twelve

Not for me
the batons dedicated to victory,
the rivers of tamed Thames snared
but as I heave no eyes
to look above at runners in their two by twos,
those many many few
I feel the gold surge from their chariot lanes...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Six Times as Six

Oh where for thou art!
Cavort through metal stalks
toward adder throated kings
laying lower than a baptist.
Oh daughter of a bamboo bruise
the hunt is six six six,
for birch bodied plastic teens
who hark after cadaver lined strumpets,
toppling on their bayonet heels
and hitching up their wolves for howling.

God rest ye mission 666;
stir digital capers unto homebrews
and march gator heads to hernias.
Their bolted throes in shadows
where domed headed children
lurk as punks with kettle mouths.
And bodies
and the static waves
of feral petted skin.

Hush the tides of mourning,
always beneath
the velvet hush,
a simmering blast of summer
blinding the Wild Hunt's eye.
Hands fold,
fold in saturated flesh
death weeping veil to its hunter...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

The BaccyLand (Champion 2)

Scream for tabloid fronted acres
of cheap chicken dens and lager topped vistas;
the Baccy Land
fields of fingered glory(holes)
where Lady Text and her death row prince
lay low from life,
hidden in their television tans.

In spite of labour,
despite the worlds insistence
to spin tides of turning,
those Bacardi darlings
(slum lords to a quid)
are content to thrive in cellulite
and dole queue city yarns.



© Steven Francis poems 2013

Serrated Light

Rolling glass cut the angels
as morning waves sincere
fall on modern hell.
Barbed chins needle their way to totem halls,
man made phantoms, all we are,
the vertebra of salted humility made good.
And though the vows of architects
stretch carnal orders of squad fired lines,
the furies dial repent;
and all awash
the dry clutch collars of sanity
slot limbs into gravy stalls
where sober envy fails to kill
a court of shaded vandals...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

Clover Dawn

Sombrero tans for somber kids,
we artists of the stethoscope
spit Machiavellian rhymes
to live another day beyond the nail.
Valley of chapels
slap jaws to ring out death row
verses,
guide me oh foul great deceiver
mad running madness to chicken stabs
and vertigo.
Hail thy mad.
Heaven beneath a ground
not fit for men of soul
yet fitter than a demon bone...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

To Abraham

To rest hungry eyes
on such a face of interest,
a pleasure,
my poison, man of craggy countenance.
Oh face! Like a map of ribald scars
each leading to sonnet danger tales,
idle creases in collusion with fear shy bones;
Lincoln of the People
a triumph in a land of ages.

Bow thy solemn head
and shake those bats in hoods
under a heavy brow.
A structure future perfect
maddening the timeless printworks.
Magik ending in a K
as your bottom lip nods apologetically
to your castle of A,
Merica
Braham,
silent letters missing
off to fill the liberty spirits...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Dragon Streets

Mouthless svengalis line the pavements
where suns dry like coked out moths
under Tesco signs and local ads for tyres.
London to Cardiff to blah blah blah,
as wild winds and cities go
London is just Swansea with an ego.
Blunt and tired stiletto parks all,
full to the brim with orange faced girls
in tight skirts without menace or style for slogans
on their chip fat heavy breasts.
And then come the men
as lethal as moles in a bookstore,
dampened by a flat crotch and tin eyelids.

Little Los Angeles!
Dragon streets untamed
untamable,
a menagerie of flame and crusted sauce
battling to be King Blade
on the artery streets...

© Steven Francis 2013