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that secret

by Paul Sands

italic Sundays run with a poisonous doubt

a wronged wash in the what might have been

where we fidget like fleas on a rabbits hide

and verses drafted in the cross stitched sky

cannot disguise the well-practiced curses

with the pre-packed presumption of lilies

and static

abstract amongst the sheets

your limbs offer a confusion of choice

where context is lost

besides t...

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Sunday 24th May 2015 7:23 pm

love   lust   longing   unobtainable   wishful

did I ever say I was “good people”?

by Paul Sands

did I ever say I was “good people”?

some days I miss the hasty shouting

the crack of fist on salted cheekbones

 

better that than the nauseous choice

of considered upholstery or designer phones

never weather appropriate, rather, accident

 

ripped and bleeding, waiting for some other

and days my head will fill with men of war

always in shock yet mostly in awe

 

a...

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Sunday 22nd December 2013 5:02 pm

despair   aging   longing   self destruction   loss

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