Nimble fingers quick to staple mouths
and pose as ballet frilled emphysema dolls.
Like sickly tumbleweeds
lost in a Mardi Gras fog
the battered smokers shuffle
in limpet queues to the marvellous,
cardboard sleeved, coffee bordered death house.
Spider framed and inching to the trap,
hunted to the quick, the sovereign root;
those Woodbine gallows will not lay mercy
upon corduroy throats.
Golden tickets await in mint shelled corridors...
@ 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment