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

Laughs Out Allowed

Werewolf lord with shipwrecked smile
know that there is no humour in vanity,
no mirth in easy offence
so drop the mule act
and find a style of YOURS not THEM.

No to God.
No to copyright.
No to Gossip, Kings and Love
(all capitals),
but fret not ham diamond Buddha.
The words in this stanza
do not apply to you my would-be hero...

©Steven Francis poems 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

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

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