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Dinosaur Nebraska

Thought id catch this green alley
to drink and suffocate
while gangs of Hebrew jaws
hang out under a ketchup firmament.
Let the cats out
to brew a few,
as I lose it all
from marrow to pigment.
Flesh crimes are firm favourite,
today, tomorrow, today again.

Harvest the bulb fish and bruise queens
before gallows lose a braided grip.
Gather teens in digital pods
to skin frosted, leukemia tans alive
and wear their fashion down to worms.
Cocaine and ham,
sour bag favourites of amphibian tribes
in sulphur caves where serrated edges
cradle hangovers at dawn.

And after each light fades
those candy garters slip during staircase romances;
arched spine
tails like commas,
rise momma to braille finger lust.
Watch show freaks grind
as merry weather stirs with fan-tailed erections...

©Steven Francis poems 2012

Don't Sleep

Don't sleep cariad fach,
the goodly sons and daughters
are racing to your whispers
even when darkness grips
the cold shard of night.
Yn disgwyl arno ti.

Do not sleep dear Wales,
fall not to despair and anger
and lift the light of Hope
to find our babe,
lead her home to Mami.
Peidiwch cysgy blodyn
mae pawb yn dod...

FOR APRIL JONES

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Teh Web

Ya evil f**king log of quizes
(I am not sane not at all)
you always stall in eulogies and RIPs.
Stone hearted faceless screen
interupting daydreams,
you get in the way of skies and seas,
you buffer of human skin of time,
a souless web of wires
waiting for grey haired minds to pass away.
Rest in peace
RIP...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Madam Abstract

You know who
you who the know and lie;
that wily throat
has a denser tongue
and betrays your fostered eyes.

And here ends forgery
of desperate, wounded cool;
pitter patter
back to crowds
a disarmed and tainted fool...

© Steven Francis poems 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