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