God Is In The Neon Light

I am a big demon sent to devour smaller demons. My sins make theirs look like Easter bunnies with triple gin in the cream. Their teeth ladle wasters into the guts whilst these fangs have skin upon the plaque. A good man, and decent, parading in the fur of a fiend. Too sick for a vampire. Especially the darling movie type. And if I were I would hang in ribcages of kind folk not flap around flabby throats of the idle. Drunk really. Looking for a cooler name than 'drunk'. Soul sucking has such disco. Piss artists love drama and havoc suits us well.
In truth, in bald light, all I am is a gentle spirit walking on the daggers edge. Yes there are lions and rape, robbery and vice, but always at a bottles end as the cork goes rolling into the sea. It is calm when bubbles hit. Its never dark in the puddles. I carry a bottle like a gunslinger carries his six shooter. Always loaded, and always ready to kill the things that should not be.
Sober breasted people do not care for extremes. They enjoy their comfortable nests among their own in suburbia. The stable and in its own way poisoned career, new car, childrens tea parties, holidays in the sun, letterbox spewing bill upon bill like a dope sick poet. Routine. This is their God. Every day the ritual is the same, from first cup of tea to books at bedtime, and they revel in it. (Or act like they do).
The pub on weekends and chip shop suppers, chapels to the family and rightly where they belong.
But I would catch my death in such environments. In fields of kind words and moderation I would wilt, there is no Life for me there. In peals of light there are no shadows in which to lurk, no place to hide vice from disgusted looks and little understanding of mortuary cloth humour. Everything is sane and orderly and I need excess. I crave unholy passions, my scent is of pigs bloated with gin, primed for the butchers cradle. The machete hangs like the sword of Damocles, fantastic to dance under, the skin crawls alive under threat:

In Crayon: Cemetery

And the chaos beats you to it
cobwebbed pictures make it real.
Deathly dying and the dead
there’s a defiance to it
falling into soil.
Graveyard summer
holiday of worms,
there is fever in the bones tonight
we sick,
we merry sick…
@Steven Francis poems 2009

Life must have a morbid flavour for me to live comfortably. It must be swilled with rum and nails, I am not a patron to moderation. I enjoy my lusts served raw. There is melody between folds of wretched gluttony, never so high is one so wasted. Terror angels watch falling stardust land on earth but it will never seed on sober ground. Only whiskey palaces and mayhem can nurture such glamorous plants. The timid seldom have power to raise war babies and rockstars.
Im a f**king wildman, running through emotion like a bull, knocking common sense sideways and growing disease under my breastbone. Most find God in church or through personal troubles but I see Him everywhere: in gutters, pubs, alleyways, orgies, even in the trailing lights of speeding traffic on a wet night. Determination to know the universe peels my eyes back so far my eyeball looks like a marble in the middle of a mouth. I look for the hope in labyrinths of doom, and cities thriving beneath the seas.
There is no hope for me in sunlit afternoons. I belong sedated, or else I run rampant using fist or emotion to satisfy my energy. A savage ghoul thrilled at the thought of broken things.