Knock On Nine

There it stops,
hanging over the waiting stroke
but never falling,
never striking.
Locked between eight and nine
like a cobra undecided.
Undecided!
That lord between if or that,
the law of spite
a varicose lay by.

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

Carnivore Carnival

Ignore the grim parade
as the rough edged patibulum
is dragged through ripping, virulent forests
onto shores of gore.
Scabby mobs crowding every corner of sight
while dizzy beats rain upon gaping skin;
look down thy nose at weeping, ransacked feet
you prince, thief, handsome man,
swivel from the gator eyes
and prepare to look down in earnest.

Sag on thy suppedaneum like a tooth petal'd flower,
let air escape from battered lungs never to return;
a pierced sack doll straining on the spear
while the olive limbed timber wolves look on,
listening for that last knock on wood.
Praise the soul! For the mangled sound of posed cadavers!
Rejoice! In slow destruction and intestinal choking!
In razor lights the monstrous sinners are dissolved
until only the cross remains with open arms,
three headed in its lust for terror...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

The Others

We do not die
those who are alive today.
Its them,
the others who do that,
who die and be in drama,
be dead and talked about.

We can't get sick
we strong as horses in orange fields.
Its them,
the others who fall ill,
lose legs, breakdown
and get conned by mortality.

We don't get robbed
we money strokers with anaconda wallets.
Its them,
the others who become prey to thieves,
get ripped and choked and snivelling,
those poor spit broke others...

@ Steven francis poems 2011

Le Bold

Ah the photo!
Yes thats the one,
of Joyce in company with publishers,
his face says "I Am God!"
While they can only nod
and want to lick the soles of His Irish feet.

@ Steven Francis poems 2011