There is no sight
in these wide woody eyes
which used to count stars in the skylight.
Or flesh
ribbon'd on these bones,
that held my darling to my chest,
barrel-like with pride.
Vanished
(but never the pride)
my tattooed trunk has been turned to splinter
by a heart which fed hungry flames
to the dragon stretched across my stomach.
Where are the memories
inside this haggard head of mine?
I rage through themes of Love
and episodes of life when life was fine,
I seethe back again,
times and faces disappearing
the instant I brush against the pulse
I keep for company.
Where do ghosts hide?
Where do they go?
The milk which used to ignite my blood
and feed the stray mad dogs,
is seeping through my fingernails
ready to stain the coffin
as I claw my way inside.
No sultan's promise
or candy eyed horizons
left to bronze these bones of mine.
No spark left or rock or roll
to sleep off in my widowed bed,
the place which now is rattling to my death,
smothering romance,
cradling this withered shell
like a rock pool womb.
Unable to recognise the spirit
beneath rumours of chronic choirs,
I click my thumbs like toy soldiers
smashing daisy chains,
firing bogey men into a empty sky.
No sight nor strength
no love hangs from my crooked frame,
but faith will see me
back amongst those stars beyond the skylight...
@Steven Francis poems 1999
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