Paul Sands

Confession Bowl
 

There is a tap on the window, not the kind that knocks but one that drips, fending off your muttoned jealousy as the parlour nonsense of a miscarried edition. Amidst the apoplectic Sunday ink the reaction to your merchandised murder leaves a child wailing in the rafters, screaming probability lines. For the wilted believers the audible rumours do little. The pay is unreal for these working drones and neatly weighted trails, streaking through a marksman's bones, offer such a perilous reform. Sheared of the fiercest reckoning I fear less the depleted uranium than the seventh level of cholesterol. A sharp sighted dog such as this travels unguided with every loss covered in languid presumption knowing such victories are nothing but treasoned winnings provenanced by bloodied soil and poison pissed beaches. Save the grief, wrap it with a bow, as priceless a gift  for the breathless breakfast apnoea as you could wish to have you choking into your confession bowl.

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line them up

 

sweet pearl tricked from the singly balanced cradle deep in those oyster spilt hips by un-cool uncle lying lips , listen, can you keep a secret while the sea stings your skull?

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Siege Engine

 

The enemies of the she-costumed carnivores can only be afforded cocked discouragement, a moody gun that shakily advises the apical trill of survival, loosely licking towards a frightened stare atop the exposed cinders of summer wiped houses
They shall busy the fury which entered, with seeming grace, yet confined a coloured rage enticed by a cruel campaign unsealed , amongst cheaply woven beards concrete in their inherited drama and the sympathy that historians herald with initialised stationery.
Siege, resist, repeat, the next defector wins once the completist sucks the precious ransom from its gentle dress. Now fix the bedroom light or foster your fear to slide out from between the sheets to sweep all industry aside, for now the dark satanic tills scan a digital portrait of voodoo clowns left in the shade where none can prove nor double rise under the sun. Wander in the reckless ugliness, writing fables with the debris of clothes removed by the offset of a simple span. You cannot excuse those left hanging in tortured water. The portioned dungeon of camouflaged strangling blinds the boy smoothed at the edges into a binding selection.

Revolution litters the prevailing wind