Morgue Lounge

Lost and deaf
in Poisonville,
where ghosts stroke startled cats
pregnant with dogs.
The poor raped
the rich escaped,
one way street
dead end.

Shift between
Cremation Street
and Hooligan Avenue,
its ouija time again.
Beneath a graffiti moon
coffin streetlights
burn naked wallflowers
grinding against the brickwork.
Nobody here reads romance.

Chains in the park
fool the addicts
into believing only silver shines.
Strange habits trick the dying,
snakes draw blood
from wilted bone.
Chaos reigns at the funhouse.

Along Gambling Alley
where honesty lost its step,
cloaked vampires
cook pavement artists in tin ovens.
Smells of fat and salt
attract cannibal vagrants
with cider eyes
from their fingerless beds.
Smash the fish
and swim like the drowned.

In shadows
of the dead
mourners go on safari,
collecting cobwebs
chasing poltergeists into chapels.
Nothing is spared
in this lounge,
tiger butterflies fall
on Sin and hearts.

Black hole City,
where Christmas never comes
and running people run.
Scorpions lay wrapped
in barbed wire
waiting for prayer.
Fall in love with Dracula,
honeymoon in the morgue...

Learn more about this author, Steven Francis.
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