Six Times as Six

Oh where for thou art!
Cavort through metal stalks
toward adder throated kings
laying lower than a baptist.
Oh daughter of a bamboo bruise
the hunt is six six six,
for birch bodied plastic teens
who hark after cadaver lined strumpets,
toppling on their bayonet heels
and hitching up their wolves for howling.

God rest ye mission 666;
stir digital capers unto homebrews
and march gator heads to hernias.
Their bolted throes in shadows
where domed headed children
lurk as punks with kettle mouths.
And bodies
and the static waves
of feral petted skin.

Hush the tides of mourning,
always beneath
the velvet hush,
a simmering blast of summer
blinding the Wild Hunt's eye.
Hands fold,
fold in saturated flesh
death weeping veil to its hunter...

© Steven Francis poems 2013

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