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Paul Sands - 2


shelter '81

every evening
 
without fail
 
I would watch
from my third floor 
neon, Freon, digital eyrie
 
as he scraped his arse along the street
shuffling, scuffing the rags that passed for raiment
ripping the empty legs further each night
as the chorus of inebriate fighters,
noses swollen veined plums,
caroused and cajoled his every
gravelled slide
while throwing punches, and each other, can in hand
at passing cars
 
his limbs, of wood and plastic,
would arrive later
under police escort
 
old world problems under the new world’s 
hardened, refrigerated glaze
 
every evening
 
without fail
 
until the day he didn’t

(ˈmɑːstəˌwɜːk)

she was a work of art
her hydrogen tanned hide
toasted and stretched over a

Belsen frame
dragon ridged through a vitiligous

spinal crook

such a masterwork of cubist devotion
the puked architecture
of a thousand regurgitated meals

could have engendered revulsion
and yet she was beautiful
and begged my bone cracking
embrace

Painted into a Corner  ☊

I paint myself inspired, intense,
dismayed but remain just a fat old man
who can’t get laid
such a contrary slut
bathing myself in the corporate filth
served in Styrofoam cups

the master of diversion

ooh look
the circus is in town

maybe now is my chance
to pull up and over and run away
with a tired old sawdust queen
sold as seen

amidst this arid contemplation
of sequins and tights
I move aside for the mirrored blue
lights that attend the latest
mess of bent manufacture
and twisted necks

I re-tune the radio
and make the best  

jet scream

a single bright needle
picks apart the forget-me-not cloth
then stitches it back together
with a chalky yarn
so swiftly run that
the scream doesn’t come
until later
Picture

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rise  ☊

rise that we distance
anything less than the invited
silence girl
rise through the anonymity of your greasy canvas
let the cold extinction
of peasants doubting the dead write your loathing of me
you are high and I
am cover for every
petty perception
yet not nor ever the mirror you deserve
the glass so close
many time inflicted kills where the wounds downpour
     impatient in their obligation forced lengths will burn
     splintered lungs and
hand held photographs
yet dusted tributes drum
a rumpus along a veined abandon as wounds licked
    hold off such forced hope
no wires can close
so puckered a wither of callow tribute

iced

belly up, seal-suited, booted and solstice shy
the weight under a sickle curved sky-sail, the icicle smile
of a frictionless fear, wears this glass thin but while

wise in countless ways, beyond the power
of n at least, stays wary yet of the sightless beast hidden
behind the curve

above and below 66.5°, you will find your breath tastes
harder where the wait bears down as a ferocious maul
for the sound grows further from your there
and anywhere else

this here is where
the darkness of a never dawning light
will swallow your whole once the green
curtains close and you can learn
no more

night time is the fight time

listen, all you ragged dolls,
let the midnight chimes run

and rifled spirits slake a claim
to the rattling lights of your
basal vein plugged

and filled to boiling brim.

vinegar, piss and

burning vim unquiver

ten fingers, hammer wound, yet
eagerly redeemed for one look
in most market towns,

where too many pretty girls
litter the borough

awaiting the charms of a
low knuckled clown

whisper

are you the whisper keeper?
when clouds extend a warning and
miracles broil your scruples
does your finger hover and sweat
or give birth
to lead and brass?
who travels with me through this
threadbare theatre
amongst the thorny portraits of hollow girls
and brown tongued dupes
are you the conspiratorial ghost that holds
my hand and animates the hairs
along my spine?
are you?
or will you be happier
once you turn off the lights and leave behind
this unfurled assembly of doodled
affliction?

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