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
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...
Sunday, 27 October 2013
Wednesday, 2 October 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
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
Tuesday, 1 October 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
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
Friday, 27 September 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
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
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
Thursday, 5 September 2013
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
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
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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