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

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

Come Endless

Come end
come distant seas
where throes of man
live as idle fruit for kings
and mirrors send their spirits
keen as devil tongues
to viper morturies.
Amen
and say again amen!
Bring garden patches
to deserts of the deep,
the fractured paradise
a nylon pulse of man...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Lure Of Ladders

You take it from ages
and then pass away like stalling ice,
(sorry die,
where are our less than perfect manners?)
Ailing ranks, burnt smiles
weave grated dagger lines
as senseless time
lends a hand to forge saints in crafted ink.

And down beneath the lure of ladders
a ghost looking ghost
grows bolder than a clock face,
swapping wrists for hours.
Those sympathetic trails lead to lights
and morse code, happy ending routes
where gritted soldiers march to divide
electricty and horizons.

Oh by jaws of grace!
Those sons of thunder
will bait maggot cloth to dress a death
in bony sunset.
Stamp of destination, shy of eternity,
the barrel face of numbers
seeking madmen in stone of Man.

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Footwork

We live
we play energetic crab lined beats
and tip our shadows to the puddles;
we drive and cook
we love,
think ourselves brave at music strokes
and we die.
There is no more to it,
no more thought or philosophies
we kiss we walk
we stroke the cat and die...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Coal Man (Relative of Death)

I am no fun
tick no mercy in your box of chances
as I leap around your shaggy frame
to shake it into putrid mulch.
When I am done (this no good fun)
no medicine or friend will recognise you,
or son or daughter find comfort in holding fathers hand
as it withers in a paper bed.
Disease tenants,
I love you to death...

@ Steven Francis poems 2012