Bold as Thor's lead
and twice as hard,
going nowhere
save the guts of a glass.
Beware foul, buttercupped dolls
of invoking the demons of my tyrrany
as long shall sleep thy tongues
on my belt stiched from swans livers.
We are death and dying,
storming into Cerebrus tides
like kids in suicide gloves,
or hens on the beaks of jackdaws.
Glow into night suicide
you eager feather, crispy skin
of lardy dinner.
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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