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
More poetry from Welsh poet/writer Steven Francis. Described by one reviewer as "the poet with a magic microscope into human emotion", Steven is a fascinating walk into a dawn where the sun reveals everything...
