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
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...
Showing posts with label kings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kings. Show all posts
Wednesday, 21 May 2014
Thursday, 31 October 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
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
Wednesday, 4 September 2013
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
toward yellow sickly eyes
that fall
flush between a noble light
of dawn and dusk,
a sanguin flight...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
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