Robert Francis



They ran under the tongues of the throne.

A quick cackle – reverb – hiss. Then silence.

They traced down guttural galleries,

A track of step and ladder cut ups found.


They mount; surround to push and stretch the edges,

and blow to inflate – lampshade flesh

all bejewelled with another quick cackle – hiss,

She rests – iodine stained emerald skin.


They flex and tense to keep her asleep

to breach her bounty with a sliced kiss,

her crowned belch felt like kick starts.

They pinned, framed and hung her high


a butterfly posted on public display

set on cold tablet with the popping spores of truffles.

They stare as stools in a sideshow coven

as if raptured by the slow dry breeze.


When they throw up and wake they govern

with their sad common kicks in the root

of her chapel wound that lay on the slab

just like the truth we’d decided.

Panic! Poets

Panic! Art Gallery