Bored
like golf
sober
as owls
dead
like a fingerprint
this mantra.
Quarrelled
like scars
rabid
as a grand prix
psychotic
like typewriters,
this cabaret.
Paupers weight
empty pockets,
bring out the head
of Elvis.
Eager
as paper cuts
vulgar
like celluloid
cheap as gravy,
this gossip.
Warm
as handcuffs
crazy
like weevils
dizzy
as buddah,
this jazz.
Starving muscle
cradled bones,
bring out the head
of Elvis.
Weird
as blisters
lazy
like video
miserable
as cabbages,
this mourning.
Obssessed
like hedgehogs
drunk
as a pier
horny
like fat boys,
this zeitgeist.
Poor
like murder
bold
as pineapples
forever
like toffee
this celebrity
Junkies roam
a town of souls,
bring out the head
of Elvis...
Steven Francis poems 1999
Friday 6 November 2009
Hardcore Diva
Shape an ego
from rat farthing city lights
and cage it in a lament to idle styles.
My dick is such a worn out limb
waiting for Tennessee buddahs
and wives with flapping knives.
Wanted by
praise and envy,
obssessed fans,
cigarettes
and tired looking prophets.
Tune in to appetite
to find me staring at you
from the mouth of a clownish corpse,
where dormice dare cross the landlord
and legends are born to coked brethren.
Buzzards hack at stoned eyes.
Feed the crooked cat
live rats,
bourbon and humiliation.
Watch its skull escape
like Houdini into freckled days.
Tie me to scissors my darling
cut me into shape.
Pornography has bloated me
sex bible on the knock.
These drugged up visions on a rampage
firing the voodoo,
I cannot lose the blues
to poker playing cowboys.
Save me from
wicked trends
shackled tigers.
Tinsel town
and lover's lane.
I am not God,
I am prey to temptation.
This is hardcore
this be a crumbling school
where fish mime to radios
and rock stars are born in comas
on the bathroom floor.
Needles bought at Tiffany's
like smoking pistols in their paws,
empty of bruised graffiti.
Bury the martyrs
where sun stirs for funerals,
and take their freedom
to use against addiction.
A holy diva lights her plumage
and fear disappears.
Monsters don't live in the day.
Cafe princess
guide mr to caffiene
and gold plated belly aches,
lure me to bed.
Coffee from hookah pipes
shouldn't taste so good...
@Steven Francis poems 1999
from rat farthing city lights
and cage it in a lament to idle styles.
My dick is such a worn out limb
waiting for Tennessee buddahs
and wives with flapping knives.
Wanted by
praise and envy,
obssessed fans,
cigarettes
and tired looking prophets.
Tune in to appetite
to find me staring at you
from the mouth of a clownish corpse,
where dormice dare cross the landlord
and legends are born to coked brethren.
Buzzards hack at stoned eyes.
Feed the crooked cat
live rats,
bourbon and humiliation.
Watch its skull escape
like Houdini into freckled days.
Tie me to scissors my darling
cut me into shape.
Pornography has bloated me
sex bible on the knock.
These drugged up visions on a rampage
firing the voodoo,
I cannot lose the blues
to poker playing cowboys.
Save me from
wicked trends
shackled tigers.
Tinsel town
and lover's lane.
I am not God,
I am prey to temptation.
This is hardcore
this be a crumbling school
where fish mime to radios
and rock stars are born in comas
on the bathroom floor.
Needles bought at Tiffany's
like smoking pistols in their paws,
empty of bruised graffiti.
Bury the martyrs
where sun stirs for funerals,
and take their freedom
to use against addiction.
A holy diva lights her plumage
and fear disappears.
Monsters don't live in the day.
Cafe princess
guide mr to caffiene
and gold plated belly aches,
lure me to bed.
Coffee from hookah pipes
shouldn't taste so good...
@Steven Francis poems 1999
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