Dare of the Sultan's Beak

Do it in my sleep:
f**k and whip me
take my breath away,
kill me
grand murder.
Scare these solemn scars
and weave them into a morgue utopia,
a reflection vile,
another fine day for the dying switch
to trap my codeine epilogue
in savage gardens of heretic limbo.


Deathfanglorious!
But do it in the quiet night
when heartbeat is in its infancy.
Glass vain kidneys,
abuse the weakened flesh
and hold my loving, cruel heart
in skull hands.
A white ego
stoned in slumber cells,
these poor cadaverous leftovers
left for real this time.
Welcome an evil side,
prayer returned to sender
just sympathise...

© Steven Francis poems 2013



@ Steven Francis 2011

How Rest, Modern Dead

In mortal cradles
bodies do they sleep,
bombed to tears,
in earthly threads.
A bitter walk on city bones,
frost an ally
strips of soul (kept here for towns to mourn)
as ancients rise to glass lambs
and wild prayer.

How sleep the morbid brave,
whistling for capers
and reigning sin.
Who is who?
Of carpet cadavers?
The skin trilogy:
birth
and disease,
and dying in a rosy shell
as wolf takes hold...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Wallpapers Knock the Edge Off Picture Frames

And there it stands
as proud as a heron knifing fish
with its dagger face,
a memory of tanned flesh
nailed to the sand-bag hurting wall.
Glass heroes or heroines
stitched to paper,
witnessing love and fights,
all screeching dishes and cotton witchcraft.

Everlasting smiles
the haggard baron,
squirming on tea stained paper.
The mould dark as lice
creeping closer to lick the face of Saints.
Family gallows
on bony rusting nails,
keep safe the memories,
away from height of wolves.

Lofty heights,
a ceiling higher than Heaven,
call for tea and chips
as you kneel before a familiar Jesus.
Time is eternal in the rocking fist of pine
and less is blood behind that happy window.
Purse of dreams,
a halo of frozen minutes...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Six Times As Much As Six Six

Oh where for thou art!
Cavort through metal stalks
toward adder throated kings
laying lower than a baptist.
Daughter of a bamboo bruise,
the hunt six six six,
for birch bodied kettle teens
who hark for cadaver lined strumpets,
toppling on their bayonet heels
and hitching up their wolves for howling.

God rest mission 666,
let there be night!
March gator heads to their hernias
and city sands,
where doom headed children
milk homebrewed scorpions to lace their gospels.
Always beneath
the poor streets,
blood simmers like shards of summer.
Keen to the devil's eye
a touch of heavy breath and prayer,
forgotten on the soles, not souls
of dog-eared youth...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

The Cravings of A Welshman

Oh rampant pains
of a drunken Welshman
as he prowled the streets
for a simple Englishman.
To pick his bones
and lob the stones,
into pools of choir
as Myfanwy groans.

The ale and laver
does hwyl his soul,
from Felinfoel
to fields of coal.
On Burry Port
and Pembrey shores,
the Welshman
knows his cockle chores.
Gwenllian walks in Kidwelly mun,
without her head,
beyond the sun.

Cymru! Wales!
Where bards run riot
The cawl is deep
the lovespoons quiet.
Long he sleeps
on Merlin's hill,
the wizard's Welsh
stirred Bennett's Phil.

Dragon red
lift claw in pride,
three feathers comb
the pride inside.
No fear breaks
the soul of man,
storms lay shattered
by cwtches hand.

Wales! Cymru!
Ancient Celts,
mother's tongue
on dafodil belts.
Sing of old
as sing we must,
the Cymru tribes
of Swansea dust...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

The Fly

Beat the fat by becoming Diptera
and suck mandible breakfasts
as you wear shit clogs
to spread merry botulism from upside down
dances from the pen of Satan.

Instead of spoons
try flesh mechanics,
try ripping shreds from humanity
in tiny doses as you frustrate
the chore of passive souls
and send then into lunacy.

Bastards!
It is your glorious way,
the order of shilling sized ogres
brewed by the smallest god,
the god who loved milk.
That unholy B machine
designed in sanity hating cabals.

©Steven Francis poems 2013

I Pick My Nose When God is Watching

No pews here squire,
the dotcom boys hid them
under vomit flavoured Gucci cases,
where squalid beggars are refused alms.
Clutcher, get a clutcher quick,
bang that breathing muscle in your bulls-eye
and drop off to where charity
is always in season.

Alas thought occurs -
tattooed sleeves
always stroke veneered souls.

Classy old male
(Messiah junior)
pardon me and do-re-me,
young champions of the silver set.
Never mind the rag hearts,
made to burn
and soak up fat from sunset elders,
die young is a privilege.

All hail opportunity!

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Days of Naked Riot

When the party is over
the rook shall rest his beak
and nod in awe
to mad worlds;
praise the Motorhead,
applaud the sand!
Riff cities from cider temples
where quiet unrest hold murders of young birds
spellbound as they fight for mother...

@Steven Francis Poems 20013

Pauper, the Next

What is this I see before me?
Hell in all its glory...

Die.
Pass into emblem of state,
no file await the Hollywood
this time.
No Nightingale lines the larynx.
Not for you
flashpoint God
Of yellow lines and slender tantrum.

Adore today
adieu today,
but not the night
when you silently pass
(without fanfare)
into the It,
the What.
Whatever.
Bone broke
Thomas with green,
brackets with sulphur.
Click boxes
and the bait men would raise
and seethe...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

For the Hollywood pampered who in the next world become bone.



@Steven Francis 2009

Laughs Out Allowed

Werewolf lord with shipwrecked smile
know that there is no humour in vanity,
no mirth in easy offence
so drop the mule act
and find a style of YOURS not THEM.

No to God.
No to copyright.
No to Gossip, Kings and Love
(all capitals),
but fret not ham diamond Buddha.
The words in this stanza
do not apply to you my would-be hero...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Quick Kings

Slowly into darkess crawl,
toward yellow sickly eyes
that fall
flush between a noble light
of dawn and dusk,
a sanguin flight...


©Steven Francis poems 2013

One Legged Prayer of the Common Man

F**k those Tory toffs,
they have lots
while we have nots.

Burn them
in their majestic beds,
while WE sleep in sheds...


Full stop,
a wealthy, fatty stop,
as we ALL drop...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Soul Sale

I sell souls
a tenner a pop
at the soul shop.
A tenner, or fiver
for one that was worn
by a healer who died
peacefully in his sleep
where souls are most sold.
Dream Arena,
crafters supreme,
builders and market of souls
(by yours back from the devil.)
Ten quid a soul
five shillings off for a tame one,
pennies in the dish
at the soul shop...

©Steven Francis poems 2013
.

Trigger (In A Grotto)

Its come for me
as sharp as lizards
and quick like tea,
death in breaths
heavy as the sea.

That is done
hello the worm
goodbye the sun,
feel a blink
an invisible run...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Death: Art and Easy Task

The death of a stranger is never a worry
to others, not a pain;
as death of yourself will be easy for those
who dwell not within your name.
A sad glance at an occasional obituary
(maybe yours)
and then off to news and sport
at the clicking of a kettle.
Care for gentle breaths
always venturing on being last...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Nowhere the Zero Sleeps

A digital tide is rising from wire headed monks
to prey on tradition and make mockery of Love.
Grand earache of technology attacking from exits and entrances
decieving the pinheads with bare societies,
a cyber neon clergy of pop ups and empty links.
The vulgarising innocence,
wicker basket corpses falling into carpet threads
of pointed heels that know no sin...

©Steven Francis poems 2013