Wind me up again
people of the natter,
I will sing a song
(yeah just say when)
of Love and dogs
of razors and angels,
stab a stiletto
subtle queen of fang.
To gorge on distant cultures
in vague hours of distress,
I am well fed
fed well on bacon rind and cider,
glory to the never heard
ignorance keeps me sane.
A sensitive fiend
from cradle to eternity,
shaped from the breaking wheel
and basket of horrors.
And while juniper candy
fails to hook the fillies
I burn my dancing clothes in hell.
These teeth (clenched and sun drenched)
brushed with old newspapers
to tickle slap on smiles
of reassurance,
which pander to energetic urges
of distemper.
Viva melancholia!
Steal me a catastrophe.
The crisis has bled
I cannot quell actions
I cannot control the accents.
Eulogies on blotting paper
nauseating phantom.
And sadly
like the disfigured peacock
in Narcissus's attic
I fold away lacerations
into moth woven purses
to await the arrival
of a new crowd
to tease and poke...
@Steven Francis poems 1997
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