New Ogres

And as I record
the painters,
the sculpturers
and roots of sin,
those who love me
with spanners or foxgloves,
I pronounce them wife
cherry guard of all their habits.
I bid them jellied giants
in spite of tender looking charms.

The map of flame
yield to saphire pistols,
and bestow the rainbow
on fanged, china wrists...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Oak Hammer

The brim, that subtle horizon
warms my cheeks,
my barking liver
and simmers them in the onion pan.
I am cooked
broiled in siamese oceans
where my beard cannot not soothe
the weevils.
Or dragons,
the millions at my putty throat
where curses stash their torments.
And I would rap
like I was in California
begging for that brain colander
to reverbrate like a tyrant on a string.

@Steven Francis poems 2010

I (F**king) Love Death

It is bloody and all of its fuses
score with me,
the super fantastic gore
and idle flowers over muddy cradles,
I love death, its roots
and determined sleuths.
The art and wisdom
beginning with metal shards
or cancer teats,
the root of death
a megaphone into the earhole of mortality,
it will come in aquariums
or cages,
in bunches of eager caskets.
I want a graffiti stamped obelisk
in memory of my morbid constitution
and vinegar wit...

@Steven Francis poems 2010