10/28/2016 0 Comments Two Poems by R. M. FrancisSam Said Sam says, I'm sick a the scabby 'ores, all of 'em, spreadin' as 'e splits 'is wallet again. Gorr'a be the big man, ay 'e? Collier counts coins outloud, does it down The Hope each drunk Friday – thass another six sheet this wik - one wench’ll always be around, agree to tek ‘im ‘ome for it. Sam says, 'e ay split a lip since 'e was sixteen an' they purr'im away for that. Always the big man, ay 'e? Collier cuts lips with fists, does it down The Hope each drunk Saturday – there was three on 'em, Tom, an' I wor stondin' for that. Four or five fellas’ll always be around The sink ‘oles of ‘is tales. Sam meks Sunday dinner, an’ we all goo ‘round, an’ nestle in ‘er spine, an’ ignore each creak of subsidence. Collier chokes tar tears that noose ‘im to bed each ‘angin’ Sunday – yo' never did finish Mom's cracks before 'er corked it - digs those pits alone. Imagist in Netherton So much depends upon This is Art, spraycanned on the redbrick shed of the MEC down in the maze of Sledmere estate. Bio: R. M. Francis is a poet from the Black Country, researching his PhD at the University of Wolverhampton. His chapbook, Transitions, was published by The Black Light Engine Room in 2015. Two further pamphlets, Orpheus (Lapwing Publications) and Transform (A Swift Exit Press) are due out soon. https://www.facebook.com/RMFrancisPoet/
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