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

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

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

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

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

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

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