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