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Sandy Player Poems
It tastes sweet, A syrupy figure of strawberry juice Spiralling like a typhoon in the glass, Tastes sweet as I kiss the rim
Left Alone for Another Lifetime
I give my eyes to the stairs as I ascend, They seem not to be steps, steps, steps, steps, But one sheet of inclined metal Willing me to misplace my left foot and slip.
My Love Is a Red, Red Pool
My love is a red, red pool. Sanguine infact. Not a puddle, but a pool, Something that you can immerse yourself in,
Why do I ask where to go When caught like the wolf Who licks an eskimo's sword?
Down the Drain
I seem to spend my life Dangling the bath-plug over the hole; Moving it up and down Like I'm teasing a rotweiler.
They lead him on, Black wool lamb up the brown-green stepped hill To the crookèd tree that Bends with broken body.
My faint white wardrobe Opened with two scarlet handles, The clothes are on the inside, Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.
Doctor's Smoke Jar
They've put me back together again. Staples and paper making up for skin, Each perscription another dry and thin sheet.
The Children make a change of clothing; Tightening up red scarves And displaying hats as if helmets. Their grandparents stay inside as they gear up.
A Tree Can't Sing
A tree can't sing; They say mice go 'squeak' And fish go 'sploosh' But a tree is renowned for
Long Sable Torch
I hold a long sable torch, Currently dead to energy, And put a stare into the mirror Concavely doming the bulb;
I lay my head down soundlessly And watch my will trickle Down my wedding white cheek Until it is absorbed into the aphotic pillow.
In The Graves
Round a bend on a cracked path As old as the bone chits that are pressed in Six feet under, I stand to the side
You, my bed, Four legged minotaur Soft-bellied gestapo man, I am your running gypsy
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
It tastes sweet,
A syrupy figure of strawberry juice
Spiralling like a typhoon in the glass,
Tastes sweet as I kiss the rim
Into the corners of my mouth like
Two blunt knives.
I used to play a little with
The pills before hiding them away in me
One by one but
I crack the packets open this time
Like Christmas crackers
And take a suprise bomb; a bad joke.
The back of my mouth and the top of my throat
Wave on the first green coated hero
And the second doesn't stick either
But the next go in
As commandos whose cover is blown;
Like the poisonous...