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Paul Sands Dec 2016
I  am  no philosopher
I  am  Paul  from  The Meadows
pulled skinny  poor from the  shadows to put  a  deal of fat  on his bones

so  how  did   I  end  up   here?
what penalty did   I  accrue?

taking the  ten  point deduction for  conduct unbecoming
I  place my  attention  deficit on re-order that I  don’t  yet  forget

smothered  in the  scrim of this  Hogarthian hood every  chip toothed  blue   scriptured face
proffers  passage to a  poisonous but tantalising hook

to write the  junk  must I  taste the junk?

peddled or paddled for  a  sweeter  flight this  avenue never  taken,
hedonic ingress  unwalked,  unwanted yet  still wondered
could such  deep surrender  be   so  sweet to  allow the  most  intimate  of plunder?

am I  Dante?
corralled   around  the  streets
of a  society that  shows no compromise amongst  the  dying embers  of fallen  enterprise

eternal  damnable gyres around a  ****** **** pyre
of concrete,  glass  and  broken  humanity

with    each    uttered    breath    a    cold      cocktail    of profanity

the  bouncing soles of the  air  I  wear  may ease  me over  the  gummed archipelagos
flag  spij-speckle  guaran islands slab secure and  fast
against  the  counselled wash an  eternal  fossilised chaw
that  resists  the  fiercest chemical blast

lost in this  sea    I  cannot  be   but shaken  by the  waxy  man  with his  head  of startled  hemp and  coterie  of cracked  carbon
as  he breaches the  domestic brink

turning a key, his shoulders  hunched  in protective  shawl against

the  spittled spate
he stares  back through me
for  sightless  miles insides out,  front  to rear, then  scuffles, rattling,  townwardly

cannot resist  the  insecticidal compulsion of the  green  and  white purgatory
where  the  neatly  stacked  wash  of fluorescence makes  oven ready  your  heaven
amid the  threnodial thrum  of
a  hundred syncopated Siemens

following  that   shuffling   cortege  of  the   bussed  in dead and  dying
I  am dutiful, altar  bound, avowed and  accursed the  host with the  ghosts in this  haunted  mall lost  and  lonely  within  England’s  mountain  green
it  is no longer the  god   bothering needles and  blunts that    draw the crowds
as  flat  screened pharmacological rapture,
that  trinity  of distilled, medicated caffeination

lead   a   once   pious   nation   through   a   precocious dream

maybe Allah yet  sees  here  his
Jerusalem  and  leads his children
upon  England’s  land  of  crescent  green
Opening poem from my second collect, "scratch" (2013), trying to express the frustration and disgust with life in a provincial town ringed by sink estates and worshipping at the altar of consumerism
Paul Sands Jul 2015
have I been here before,
the variations of anywhere
framing the limits of waking within a wretched humility?

am I become one of the blown boys, those dear, dear boys
and their desolate, punctual, martyrdom,
or a resolute extra in a post-mortem smack fug

at ease to fester with my wounded, skyward muttering,
where even fake flowers offer injury?


easily shaken by bleary imaginings as obdurate
as a politicians dancing lips which, if they are moving,
must be lying,

rather crave the ocean's incoherent, uncorked, yawn
its contorted salutation an easy answer to the hardest ask
I had a conversation, one that decorum suggests I shouldn't have, and I was left as if crumpled and dumped on the kerbside
Paul Sands Jul 2015
in three lines expect
not the minutiae of life
fill the gaps yourself
Paul Sands Jul 2015
I would not refuse to *******.
not on a mere ethical technicality
a cursed dialectic sheared and far less pretty
than the contents of your *******
smooth as oysters lips from where your barraged ocean
falls on salty fingertips

you shall bathe in this warm artifice of my adoration
and be my play waif,
my relief from the wristed finesse
that I have become so used to

and I shall take you away from this place
where the chill of a boneless glass sustains
the shadows and fog of a self-financed ******
and Eurydice might still be expected to rise
from beneath a carpet of stone blossom

but in the sober morning a killer may raise
the bones of dead eyebrows and watch the moping steam
evanesce from the wet heart bed
bled full of drowning lungs,
the mangled target of perspective reduced
to something so blessed
Yesterday morning I watched the dramatised documentary "The ****** Adventures of Anais Nin". This, with the exception of two previously used lines, is what has emerged during the course of this afternoon
Paul Sands Jul 2015
as I looked at your photograph,
and couldn’t be sure,

I was actually ready
for you to be

a boy and all that
brought with it

until I stood
naked in front of the mirror

camera in hand
and saw

a foolish charade
for I am not an attractive man

the hope of flesh betrayed
before me

mapping my every
dream, decayed
Paul Sands Jun 2015
skinny dipping on sopping silk

a cold pooling of lunar refraction

steeps our summer drowsing

ghostly fish, lustrous slivers,

skip across tumid fleshy belly

where I kiss that soft arousing

lip traced phantom trails

follow silver shimmering wandering avenue

to a mellifluent mossy dowsing
(where once was abstract rambling now becomes imperative)
Paul Sands Jun 2015
the air seized it’s chance today screaming
“**** me!”
and every seed burst
obligingly in a torrent of stars and silken hope
yet a mere quarter hence
the deciduous mantle will slip, dowager dry and lentigo browned,
to dance tiny pirouettes with devils of dust & grit
amongst a litter of sepia confetti as summer’s rusted brides fall
their contract fulfilled
In honour of all the cotton fluff filling the air today here’s a older reflection of a previous years event
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