that final crack in a poet's wall
has surfaced like Moses from a sin club,
and now smiles a wormy grin
at conoiseurs who lost their minds to cigarettes
and starry starry nights.
Disheveled husks in greasy wards
stir in wax cocoons
while their limbs march on eggs to hit a novel
for million feathered quids
and messy pages.
Hoorah for fraud and the smacking sound of words!
Cross the corpses and dot the noose
as pale loquacious witches
comb their libra wombs
for sounds of the vivid blind...
© Steven Francis poems 2012
