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
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...
