The BaccyLand (Champion 2)

Scream for tabloid fronted acres
of cheap chicken dens and lager topped vistas;
the Baccy Land
fields of fingered glory(holes)
where Lady Text and her death row prince
lay low from life,
hidden in their television tans.

In spite of labour,
despite the worlds insistence
to spin tides of turning,
those Bacardi darlings
(slum lords to a quid)
are content to thrive in cellulite
and dole queue city yarns.



© Steven Francis poems 2013

The Race For Glass

Celebrity smoking
crunching, fiddling
and raging.
Those wind up pigs
are here to stay.
The frittering, fingering
boiling and stuttering
wind up sows,
here to stay
and f**k the armies of slug footed
press ganged kids.

We labour nothing
only to seek a life beyond the vain;
a foul glitzy whirlwind
that terrorizes ambition
and gifts it to the sloth cameras.
Autographs and semi literate biographies
become bibles to the unbibled,
those decibel children who seek gold
before a soul...

Steven Francis poems 2012