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
