Samurai Sister

There are words on my finger tips
and fish brains in my beard,
sour stars, a fable on my tongue.
A's and B's on barracudas
shimmying their way to typeset covens
where elven ladies pray to God sharks
for respite from barrel chested ogre-ish husbands.
No summer for kindness
in the thrill of seasons,
only mad moods that cut into cider streams
like ink settling on a musical heart.
Gather hunted shoals
from screams of the sonic vultures,
let wormy trash be suckered into fantasy.
And there strobe lights will sear fussy mortals
or turn them into beefy ribbons
while carnivals of cinder dogs are let loose
to feed on the remainder of the dirt.

Little scenes to smother the cogs,
duty bound letters and numbers
which flower stroke the crooked spine of Life...

Crowds

Dawn
and the angels
(pseudo kings)
awake with thirst,
a need to crayon in BOLD
and fertalize the chapters.
But never fear!
Crabs and suits have girded
their benches,
their fried pennons
to destroy the herd
and drown them with censored versions.

What was art
becomes fog still
as buisness champions the vote
and collects...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tottle Bops

Alcohol has the ability
to make love
or make love blind
and make you swear on it,
fire droplets, how you swear!
Its f**king Friday!
A time for halloween and puke
and not forgetting Love,
bloodied tics skipping from bed to bed
oh the ability to love!
That barbed vein
like smashed halos on the threshold
of desired things.
Upstate and up in a state
upward into greasy bottles,
the milk which runneth in lusty earnest...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tomb (For Bed)

The city speaks not -
not to me with its cemetery tinnitus
or my sunset hamstrings.
Inky railtrack scents
settle in the air
and bricks turn Gods into mad hares.
All the people alive in slots
flapjacked on top of each other
like salted, suited herrings.

Mourn the last soiled stubs of purity
as storms of foul accents
echo through swamp alleys like tin arias
while wooded glades fall to cider pits.
And still the corpses walk
unaware of death,
muted hocks of mutton following the motions
after losing heart to glass wilderness.
There are none more still
nor dulled
than cityt hawks wingless on mottled pavements...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Epiphany To A Chin

Until I have that epiphany
to be clean shaven again,
Im going to keep this beard
a wire breastplate on my chin.

Im going to stay fungus faced
with cleam sheets on either side,
until I get that bald epiphany
these lungs my braides shall hide...

@Steven Francis poems 2010