Thirty To Nine

My thirties years are almost at End,
less than twelve hours remain of them
and there will be no repreive;
no frame to hold the galleries of time,
the hours are at a loss.

Adieu three zero,
goodnight three nine
and all the tinplate terrors inbetween;
the gory days and dour weeks,
the months of much and less
that made for a nettle'd carnival.

Now as the death of ages arrives
to bury a tri hearted chronolgy in a vatican crib,
I hoist my fat onto a new and grander epoch,
turning my cheek from the crush of drowning chapters.
Nine years almost at an end
and from the nine I take two starry glossed parades,
twin hearts gifted from crabby, sea heavy miles...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

A Night Hawk With Minotaur Eyes

Night has no hold over it,
there can be no peace in darkness
for a creature such as myself;
a wendigo, a shape shifting blood addict
flitting from mayhem to calm in one bold minute.
These pistons never rest,
can be no peacet for the perverted.
I am a supercharged vessel of words and knuckle,
no puny spark I...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

Crepe Idols Beneath the Limpet Lights

I would wager a fistful of cockles and another of laverbread
that tuneless hornets play for you as you sleep in your seabird valley.
All stitchep up like nests of comatose dolls
as want-to-be vagrant children in pelican poses
wail into your stone ears about hawks and snakes
and uglier things in dens.
Braying with their cannisters and chalk
like their life's breath now matched yours in death...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

The Love Over All Love That Isn't Love At All

Give me your Love,
not the l inferior l type
but the L big L type,
the one which sends saints to their Eden pomp
and warlords to the pyre.

Grant me thy Love,
the grated ballad kind of little L's
which sweet talk flies into spider herds
and figure out secrets of harm.
A loveless Love perhaps?
The suffocating jamboree to end all Loves.

Shroud me within Love
the inbetween the toes love,
that cruel kind which sends men mad
and heaps ages onto pampered, cherry thighs.
Love.
All around the lovers walk in hearts and dice
while Love itself cowers under ice...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

Kinky Bedlam

The sternum suckling motor head is almost full
and from its oesophogeal pod will rev
into the barbecue fit pits
leaving belched acid on beefy breasts.
Go forth, south of the byssus threaded chin
to syphon the bottled milky rage
before leaving the master in his limpet cloth.
Oh he writhes unburdened
as it slips toward delicious mayhem,
nature and vain scriptures shaking in their quilted roots...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011