Vokal

The last chord from a red lane,
grinded away by tooth
and mortal air.
Two of us
granted no stay of death;
end words
as parched as desert stones.

Hear no more of me
and this clicking tongue.
Only in hearts and memories
are stages set
for a round of heavy sighs and prophecy.

Press "Play"
when lips will play no more,
and eventhough this soul has gone to roost
the vocals survive in mechanics.
No true end of words afterall,
no end no more in a televised century...

©Steven Francis poems 2012

Dead To Worlds

Tongue strained to overtures
and sand;
eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where stockings rise for chariots of ages,
the thellish strained overtures
and choirs of death.
I am death!
Eyes closed
and looking to the blind...


©Steven Francis 2012

Nutwig's Big Writer Type

By the blessed grail of God (and the godless)
that final crack in a poet's wall
has surfaced like Moses from a sin club,
and now smiles a wormy grin
at conoiseurs who lost their minds to cigarettes
and starry starry nights.

Disheveled husks in greasy wards
stir in wax cocoons
while their limbs march on eggs to hit a novel
for million feathered quids
and messy pages.
Hoorah for fraud and the smacking sound of words!
Cross the corpses and dot the noose
as pale loquacious witches
comb their libra wombs
for sounds of the vivid blind...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Poem To Lyric To Music

Tome Jangles
and merry sleight hands of crowds
followed ink slicks
across white sands to fret boards
where the devil lurked in muse shrouds.
Pages glowed in times of Man,
the sorrow, greed and joy
spread like harpies wings.

Prolific nightrain of a senseless breed
they sing and nail tales of death,
glory beds on foggy shores.
Strum bang jango!
Hail words and candy chorus
schemed bands from nettles in their wisdom
their joy bound lifts the hook.
A truth in streams
breath in hardcore lullabies,
trance to anaesthetise sombre hooded heads...

© Steven Francis poems 2012