Tradition Of Rebellion

The haunted,
feral ghouls gossip
careless erotica
and groom their barbed whiskers.
Tongue'd mourners
carved from glaciers,
I spy the endless appetite,
but I lie
when I spy.
Glazed terrorism
bleeding clouds,
weeping psychotics
like goldfish in my heart,
crawling to my mind.

As a hunchbacked Buddah
or broken Jesus
I walk through misery to seek a joy,
but still I hear the gossip of the wild
and still I see trappings of lust.
The pain, suffering and spite
I feed on
fuels my collision,
satisfies my morbid, blackened eyes,
quenches fires in my stomach.

I am ghoul
to the audience,
I am executioner
to peace;
I thrive to the dead
I am wild for the dying.
Bury me among enemies
so that I may lift a sword
and then,
be ghoul nor phantom or ghost
no more...

@Steven Francis poems 2001