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
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 prayer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prayer. Show all posts
Thursday, 27 March 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
Sunday, 25 August 2013
One Legged Prayer of the Common Man
F**k those Tory toffs,
they have lots
while we have nots.
Burn them
in their majestic beds,
while WE sleep in sheds...
Full stop,
a wealthy, fatty stop,
as we ALL drop...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
they have lots
while we have nots.
Burn them
in their majestic beds,
while WE sleep in sheds...
Full stop,
a wealthy, fatty stop,
as we ALL drop...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
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