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

Alien Bangs Its Head in Haywire

Man digs his nails
(its nails)
should be its-not-human-nails
into my concrete lip.
Those metal f**king ribs
on ships,
that I see yellow swirls and angels
through a glass bottom.
An ape backside which brews
a blue eyed jackdaw
into hebrew sunsets of the juvenile deliquents.

I dare not, can not speak
speak of you in hybrid consolations;
thou art my art
my Peking Cincinatti scrawls
that I drool from oil and puked scents.
Mata Hari dear,
slow volume heartbreaker of my tidal pulse,
Jesus Jesus
I am dying in bitter digital fruit...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011

Ape Lungs Getting Air from Lizard Lips

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

Look How We Are (from Upside Down)

Afraid of the dawn and its sister sun
the blood juries swarm to mother's dust;
welcome to the day when the tarnished sleep,
pissing in hooked mouths
and choking on a beggars heels.
Oh wondrous claw as camp as lillies
as thy years gridlock in the great scheme,
prime those forks and tails
and prepare the murder scam over cancerous Life.
But revel not in sullen soups
for darkness has limits on light;
swing high dear grave dolls and dandies
for the rabid sting that furs your clammy tendons
has you dead as pie crust...

@ Steven Francis poems 2011