No Gates for Angels

And all beneath the marble throat,
under knees of blackened fists
are rats and lint cadavers.
Begin and end in burial
in slick earth;
a shelf of grit and worm,
to fester and turn mad in breaths
as days fold into months then years,
skinning organs in nasty hives.
The dead in kicks of hurried heels,
forgotten in their boneless sleep...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

Tail Whipped

Was that monsieur Death I felt around my collar?
Attempting to sneak up behind the grease and spit
of the wineless glass?
Was that thief Death I saw?
Herr Black, skulking in the wings
waiting to toss me into raven pits.
A dark fist swirling like a bee
in hope for honey marrow in my mucas brain,
as I stumble to doors of tranquility on my wet lips.
Lead on skull man,
to bats and lunar doors lead on...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

In Cloves Of Ice

Obelisk in shell
smooth as a diamond devil
nestled in a hornets cove.
The organs throb ~
heart first
lungs entwined,
buttery glands slopping in fissures
while the cadaver yawns in earnest,
dead eyed as sharks.

Bloodcurdling echoes roar over the eyelash forest
as winter descends onto mortal shores,
and the bullet squinted mass hurled to oblivion.
Those pits where fish quiver,
drilled on thistle barbs to be sucked dry
by rats and serpents ~
those splintered gutsy angels.

And hell's things eager to corrupt
salivating to poison hilts.
The murder wax,
glinting swords sequined with ruby droplets
plunge into a zulu moon to skewer song
and slice memory to ribbons.
Another gulp of polished flesh
a twist of knuckle,
there lay the abominable, delicate babes
in a new sound of ages...

@Steven Francis poems 2010