New Ogres

And as I record
the painters,
the sculpturers
and roots of sin,
those who love me
with spanners or foxgloves,
I pronounce them wife
cherry guard of all their habits.
I bid them jellied giants
in spite of tender looking charms.

The map of flame
yield to saphire pistols,
and bestow the rainbow
on fanged, china wrists...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Oak Hammer

The brim, that subtle horizon
warms my cheeks,
my barking liver
and simmers them in the onion pan.
I am cooked
broiled in siamese oceans
where my beard cannot not soothe
the weevils.
Or dragons,
the millions at my putty throat
where curses stash their torments.
And I would rap
like I was in California
begging for that brain colander
to reverbrate like a tyrant on a string.

@Steven Francis poems 2010

I (F**king) Love Death

It is bloody and all of its fuses
score with me,
the super fantastic gore
and idle flowers over muddy cradles,
I love death, its roots
and determined sleuths.
The art and wisdom
beginning with metal shards
or cancer teats,
the root of death
a megaphone into the earhole of mortality,
it will come in aquariums
or cages,
in bunches of eager caskets.
I want a graffiti stamped obelisk
in memory of my morbid constitution
and vinegar wit...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Wing Murmurs

When that delirious screen clears
to reveal your nest
in foreign but familiar soup
my pulse quickens in the digital mist
and in darkness I find God again.
And see the very root of peace
in its kindly chamber.

There is nothing as wild
as seeing a flake,
a dewrop from your very soul
in bands of electricity,
stirring in a quaggy bed.
Awake now my pearl
beat those rural drifts of sanctuary
until your dainty bulb shines by regal design...

@ Steven Francis poems 2010

Samurai Sister

There are words on my finger tips
and fish brains in my beard,
sour stars, a fable on my tongue.
A's and B's on barracudas
shimmying their way to typeset covens
where elven ladies pray to God sharks
for respite from barrel chested ogre-ish husbands.
No summer for kindness
in the thrill of seasons,
only mad moods that cut into cider streams
like ink settling on a musical heart.
Gather hunted shoals
from screams of the sonic vultures,
let wormy trash be suckered into fantasy.
And there strobe lights will sear fussy mortals
or turn them into beefy ribbons
while carnivals of cinder dogs are let loose
to feed on the remainder of the dirt.

Little scenes to smother the cogs,
duty bound letters and numbers
which flower stroke the crooked spine of Life...

Crowds

Dawn
and the angels
(pseudo kings)
awake with thirst,
a need to crayon in BOLD
and fertalize the chapters.
But never fear!
Crabs and suits have girded
their benches,
their fried pennons
to destroy the herd
and drown them with censored versions.

What was art
becomes fog still
as buisness champions the vote
and collects...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

Tottle Bops

Alcohol has the ability
to make love
or make love blind
and make you swear on it,
fire droplets, how you swear!
Its f**king Friday!
A time for halloween and puke
and not forgetting Love,
bloodied tics skipping from bed to bed
oh the ability to love!
That barbed vein
like smashed halos on the threshold
of desired things.
Upstate and up in a state
upward into greasy bottles,
the milk which runneth in lusty earnest...

@Steven Francis poems 2010