There is cunning on my table,
tiny cancers in a coffin
with leather handbag lips
so shiny as they pucker the surface
of the heavy water
atop the desk I made in school.
Knives on flint
souls in a coffee jar,
the little bullets
spit back and forth
amongst shipwrecks and greenstuff
like whispering comets.
Underwater with the blind
there are angels on their way to stars
looking for a bed,
like rain in a china cup
hungry for tea-bags to rest on.
I spy quick moods
in the ripples when the light goes out,
twinkling hangovers and oils
dancing in space,
shards of tranquility with shifty eyes.
Ah such artful lords with scaly guises
buzzing, buzzing,
buzzing, buzzing,
murders in the darkness...
@Steven Francis poems 1998
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