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