A Wild Skull for Satin (A Boy Who Lived)

And here lies
the best of us;
end of all
the best of me, seppuku child.
Of 1980 and fairgrounds,
a once baby heart filled with jazz
now at threads end.

Full decades lived well
in honesty that cameras could never catch.
Beyond scars and rats
and bony jailbait
but never above,
never holier than darkest sin.

At rest now
from machines and noise,
from unwanted bully banshees
asleep and free,
bloody pulp no more.
A song to end brothers
Game Over...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Twenty Gore/7

Faceless man on the news
staying hard with gratuitous views.

Erotic chapters needling babes of old
wearing guillotine grins as stories fold,

again again, murder gospel sends
the gore chicks into razor trends.

Dames of Hollywood
house of kills,
voyeurs and ghosts
haunt the world for its ills...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Sunset Ghoulevard

Celebrity smoking
crunching, fiddling
and raging.
Those whiskey cats
are here to stay.
The frittering, fingering
boiling and stuttering
wind up sows,
here to stay
and f**k the armies of slug footed
press ganged kids.

We labour nothing
only to seek a life beyond the vain;
xanax songbirds
who terrorise ambition
and freeze before the sloth cameras.
Autographs and coked whirlwind biographies
become bibles to the unbibled,
botox winos seeking gold
before a soul....

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Poem to Lyric to Music

Time Jangles
And maniac hands of crowds
follow ink slicks
across white sands to fret boards
where the devil lurked in muse shrouds.
Pages glowed in times of man,
grand sorrow, greed and joy
spread like harpies wings.

Dynamic night rain of a senseless breed
they sing and nail their tales of death
to glory beds on foggy shores.
Strum bang jango!
Hail those words and candy chorus
schemed by bands using rebels for their wisdom,
their shotgun anthems lift craggy veils,
and order form from fury...

@Steven Francis poems 2014

Age Old Age

Old age.
I am a young man,
was a young man
filled with brim and stone,
not troubled by the hoardes of death
or chained by unfriendly arthitus.
My new veins greying in wicker chapters
as the pages turn less
and fade from cherry view.

An age old bag of bones
seeping from the lather of youth,
watching new chicks grow
as I wilt and ferment froth
nearing my extiction.
I, who was once in bloom,
replaced by fresher breeds of rabid babes.
content in withered nettles

Chief no more!
Of a venerable vintage,
bless my old testament saddled with its crooked time.
See the girls, how soft they glow
see the boys,
And I, a mean whiskered gentleman riding on
with his antique bag of skin...

©Stteven Francis poems 2014

The Death of One Who Never Was

He or sometimes She
would never feel the salt but still we mourn
as if She or sometimes He
had lived a thousand lives.

All pains lie with Him
or Her,
the bullets and heartache,
ills and poisoned luck.

So here's to you
as tongueless hoardes come mute
to sail heavy, sometimes awkward glances
over thy dark frame in sandy, morphine jaws.
Eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where memoirs dragged by chariots of ages
come to fall under sleepy overtures
and choirs of death.

You,
the friend to skulls
lover of gin gallows and looking to the blind,
you come to a hundred deaths.

@Steven Francis poems 2014

Kingdom A.D.

Digital tides rising from wire headed monks
to prey on tradition and make mockery of Love.
Electric dog awake!
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.

Proxy kings
(innocence of Gods),
step free of commas and question marks
come join the tabloid tribes...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Bruce Lee

Bruce Lee
was God to me,
a docile tip of fury
in potent pose for good.
Bare philosophy
in open shroud,
tiger truth
born of dragon ~

twin forces silent
settled with his pup...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Evolution 2:17

Fear looks with wooden eyes
from city veins in barbed hell,
to murder on a swan horizon.

No love of God
or love for dogs ~

Wish they and followers
would slip into babel lacerations,
clutching crooked jackdaw hearts
and muted hernias.

Man is safe from ref throat halls,
tricks, learned so well...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Skin Opus '85

Rocket images
guiding light to permed ailes,
as walled smiles look on
creased from too many XXX'es and litter pup halos.
Call to thighs!
Revive silk heeled alleys,
where lay the Graces and the Joys
beneath neon cramps and coked signatures,
heil dildo and the noose.

Crown of Cynthia,
of Sin;
dollar scythes twirling through skin valleys
of wonder dolls and retro prayer.
How sleeps the wolf,
a champion of c_ck soldiers
where economy lies soiled in dirty wishes.

Sour dames in faceless fame
shunned by dog tourists...

ghost starlets at home in spanner shaped coffins
under Hollywood pier,
while demon cars break spines
of wooden godfathers flashing Gucci fangs.
God save ignored reptilia!

And tend to angels with wings
dead as buttocks,
coma quiet
and barnacle rough.

As king is always king
and death forever screamed in Latin,
quick money heads to
starry eyed Vegas,
to a war beyond coyote dens
where clapperboards snap like guillotines.
War, another saturated war,

the heroin patrons are fixed,
war and fights,
dicks and grins,
cirrhosis rose for wars...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

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

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