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
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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