Fern Hill

At 1:49 you will see the esteemed Mr Jakes reading a line from Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas for the 100 year anniversary. Diolch/Thanks for watching, it was an honour to take part.

Reading from BratNews

I am currently working on a new play, "BratNews", which has been inspired by the internet and its many forums. Its still in its very early stages but in attempt to beat to death, I decided to put this up in case, God forbid (and I hope im not jinxing myself here) something happened to me before it was finished. I would hate to have this disappear without trace. And even if it is only the title and bare bones idea, that 'makes it', then that is better than nothing.

Diolch/ thanks

Steven

At the Farm Window

The horizon sulks with a gallows on its back
hanging dead wood and sinking stars
as curried clouds clamour for the night.
In my left eye, daffodils and newborn rabbits
cower from deadly weeds and satanic looking wolves
frozen in my glassy right.
Nature, as far away as television had intended,
halts granite ravens with mossy riffs
for butter lilies to rise from dew,
the morning glass.

A sightless explosion,
mother seeds in union
shattering the window with a mortal blast,
kneel deep in those wild, clove prayers...

©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

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

Burry Port

The Leather Ass of a Hollywood Dracula

Stars, all born to fade
as knives cry victory in Mercedes footwells
under the shadow of bitter, neon columns
where fame is just a ring~tailed cur.
Golden gods shaped with the sincerity of tabloid pus,
that lottery of demons for kid minded outlaws.

Burger joints and L.A.X,
hanger of the damned.
Glamour zombies miming a perfect bad world
of love and murder,
its a dull blast this bomb.
Hollywood, HollyGrief
the birdman of a dislocated Alcatraz...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Funeral Skirt

Oh raven sheathed ankles
fuelling abandoned passion,
as I drop these eyes
not in mourning but sincere lust,
to imagine rowing the boat uphill.
Drop the hem
and let us raise a bomb together...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Jade of Night

I only speak with family in dreams
where eyes are flat and voices low.
No longer trees go by in seconds flight,
life is hesitant where tombstones grow.

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Grimace (Or Not for Dogs)

Stay that heel
assassin of night,
dont make me dead just yet
for my head is too full of random errands
to be the death I must eventually become.
And while the minds eye tumbles over boggy meadows
my heart slices the khardoma sun,
needing one more blink
to breathe before I suffocate.

And then after sips of maple syrup
will I fold my cadaver
into fountains of earthy whiskers
and give my morbid hand to the tantrum shore...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Friend Of Waves

Rag doll bounce
'God help me' words
as you sink like a mole
beneath watery hole,
goodnight sweet forget-a-lot
adieu.

Bikini innards
twitch zombie strobe,

heil heil the summit floor!
For sale
forget the ale,
smorgasbord mama
help!

Revelations 999
flip six six six,

kidney Dostoyevsky.
Werewolf smiles
bedouin miles,
reap the
Titanic, sink...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Woman

Batter the crust
while souls soft as sea anemones
grind around plotted ankles

faceless.

Heels commanding chalk sermons.
The heron wails...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

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

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

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

To Abraham

To rest hungry eyes
on such a face of interest,
a pleasure,
my poison, man of craggy countenance.
Oh face! Like a map of ribald scars
each leading to sonnet danger tales,
idle creases in collusion with fear shy bones;
Lincoln of the People
a triumph in a land of ages.

Bow thy solemn head
and shake those bats in hoods
under a heavy brow.
A structure future perfect
maddening the timeless printworks.
Magik ending in a K
as your bottom lip nods apologetically
to your castle of A,
Merica
Braham,
silent letters missing
off to fill the liberty spirits...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Dragon Streets

Mouthless svengalis line the pavements
where suns dry like coked out moths
under Tesco signs and local ads for tyres.
London to Cardiff to blah blah blah,
as wild winds and cities go
London is just Swansea with an ego.
Blunt and tired stiletto parks all,
full to the brim with orange faced girls
in tight skirts without menace or style for slogans
on their chip fat heavy breasts.
And then come the men
as lethal as moles in a bookstore,
dampened by a flat crotch and tin eyelids.

Little Los Angeles!
Dragon streets untamed
untamable,
a menagerie of flame and crusted sauce
battling to be King Blade
on the artery streets...

© Steven Francis 2013

Light Of Nails

Its time to pack and say goodbye
to fold these limbs and stop to die.
No more blinks or lardy coughs
the time has come to sleep with moths.
You'll miss me but not I you
a crystal eye as sharp as dew.
Hang the coats and burn the shoes
no more jokes, no more news.
Pain and trouble now myths to me
bodies wilt but souls go free.
A sash of light around the earth
sells this head and marks my birth.
Goodbye all, it is time to leave
the heavy shell of a bard called Steve...

© Steven Francis poems 2012