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
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...
Tuesday, 17 June 2014
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
The Death of One Who Never Was
He or sometimes She
would never feel the salt but still we mourn
as if She or sometimes He
had lived a thousand lives.
All pains lie with Him
or Her,
the bullets and heartache,
ills and poisoned luck.
So here's to you
as tongueless hoardes come mute
to sail heavy, sometimes awkward glances
over thy dark frame in sandy, morphine jaws.
Eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where memoirs dragged by chariots of ages
come to fall under sleepy overtures
and choirs of death.
You,
the friend to skulls
lover of gin gallows and looking to the blind,
you come to a hundred deaths.
@Steven Francis poems 2014
would never feel the salt but still we mourn
as if She or sometimes He
had lived a thousand lives.
All pains lie with Him
or Her,
the bullets and heartache,
ills and poisoned luck.
So here's to you
as tongueless hoardes come mute
to sail heavy, sometimes awkward glances
over thy dark frame in sandy, morphine jaws.
Eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where memoirs dragged by chariots of ages
come to fall under sleepy overtures
and choirs of death.
You,
the friend to skulls
lover of gin gallows and looking to the blind,
you come to a hundred deaths.
@Steven Francis poems 2014
Wednesday, 21 May 2014
Kingdom A.D.
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
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
Wednesday, 14 May 2014
Bruce Lee
Bruce Lee
was God to me,
a docile tip of fury
in potent pose for good.
Bare philosophy
in open shroud,
tiger truth
born of dragon ~
twin forces silent
settled with his pup...
©Steven Francis poems 2014
was God to me,
a docile tip of fury
in potent pose for good.
Bare philosophy
in open shroud,
tiger truth
born of dragon ~
twin forces silent
settled with his pup...
©Steven Francis poems 2014
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Evolution 2:17
Fear looks with wooden eyes
from city veins in barbed hell,
to murder on a swan horizon.
No love of God
or love for dogs ~
Wish they and followers
would slip into babel lacerations,
clutching crooked jackdaw hearts
and muted hernias.
Man is safe from ref throat halls,
tricks, learned so well...
©Steven Francis poems 2014
from city veins in barbed hell,
to murder on a swan horizon.
No love of God
or love for dogs ~
Wish they and followers
would slip into babel lacerations,
clutching crooked jackdaw hearts
and muted hernias.
Man is safe from ref throat halls,
tricks, learned so well...
©Steven Francis poems 2014
Thursday, 27 March 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
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
Saturday, 30 November 2013
Dare of the Sultan's Beak
Do it in my sleep:
f**k and whip me
take my breath away,
kill me
grand murder.
Scare these solemn scars
and weave them into a morgue utopia,
a reflection vile,
another fine day for the dying switch
to trap my codeine epilogue
in savage gardens of heretic limbo.
Deathfanglorious!
But do it in the quiet night
when heartbeat is in its infancy.
Glass vain kidneys,
abuse the weakened flesh
and hold my loving, cruel heart
in skull hands.
A white ego
stoned in slumber cells,
these poor cadaverous leftovers
left for real this time.
Welcome an evil side,
prayer returned to sender
just sympathise...
© Steven Francis poems 2013
@ Steven Francis 2011
f**k and whip me
take my breath away,
kill me
grand murder.
Scare these solemn scars
and weave them into a morgue utopia,
a reflection vile,
another fine day for the dying switch
to trap my codeine epilogue
in savage gardens of heretic limbo.
Deathfanglorious!
But do it in the quiet night
when heartbeat is in its infancy.
Glass vain kidneys,
abuse the weakened flesh
and hold my loving, cruel heart
in skull hands.
A white ego
stoned in slumber cells,
these poor cadaverous leftovers
left for real this time.
Welcome an evil side,
prayer returned to sender
just sympathise...
© Steven Francis poems 2013
@ Steven Francis 2011
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