Death
on my wrists,
on my arms,
in my beard,
alive in storey ligaments.
I walk in wax
defending the blackest black.
The oil of corpses
and chapel lost.
Death
on my belt,
on my stereo,
ruffling my macabre ribs
into coffin fits.
No more fire,
no vulgar creases in breath
as instinct forces my gill'd tongue and calloused liver
to the pinprick island...
@Steven Francis poems 2011
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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