emotions which have me cornered
switch from knuckles to sky,
jabbing ripe solitude into this dusty, drunk again throat.
Terrestrial fields beyond sickle eyed vessels
amplify the bratty news which is less than mulch to me,
with its undercurrent sneering
on a born again electric never ending sheet.
Whistle boy and hide thy blessings
for in toy cities sincerity is seldom heard
and all there is are echoes from tourist hearts
who could never die for you.
Beast child and lizard-like
the first and last of blood
seeping from pendulum flowers...
© Steven Francis poems 2012
