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