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.

--

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?

--

 

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

Paul Sands

the wrong climate

While the vacant edge might offend the sea

No appointment is necessary

For this mortician sleeping in

Muttered anguish

So many fingers will hold you down 

For only so long

After that you can but grunt in the sculptured forfeit

Of a jealous vessel

Remember though once the rescue is declared heavier 

Than clearly prudent

The hut on the shore will rise even

As the house falls

Enlist the sympathy of the mournful papers

If you wish

Though the slower bayonets will wreak havoc

Greater than those serial promises of denial 

Though leper suitor I may be the

Brevity of my advances was matched only by

Your breath

squib

Rigid truths and squared guarantees

Texture this boy

His morseled fantasies 

The graceless torrent of impotent gods

Wary as the wasp on the chameleon's

Trapeze tongue

For even as the microscope remains

Boxed, in cotton, in woolen peace

Rags may still record

Fidelity's soiled tapestry

Once stung, the swollen speech

Of reason's soured and thickened song

Bastards the condensed apprenticeship

Fields a howling, childish drove where

Dreams so quickly cloud to sheep

I could so easily...shhhh 

You shall not impeach me for the rhymes

That I decline

 

Paul Sands was born in 1962 and raised close to the River Trent in Nottingham. Working from the age of 16 in the IT industry, between playing in noisy beat combos, for twenty-seven years he was downsized and outsourced in 2006. After dallying with photography he now lives and attempts to work in Lincolnshire.

He self published his first collection of poetry, Ego...Ergo (ISBN 9781471758676), in June 2012. The summer of 2013 saw him publish a second collection entitled Scratch (ISBN 9781291525168)