Biography of Sandy Player
Been writing since Sept.2011; cut me some slack...
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,
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.
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.
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
The Waiting Rooms Fish Tank
'I think it's a Butterfly Goodeid' She said at the fish tank whilst the boy Stared the green paper waste bin down. It stuck to his eyes like dry blood on a dirty wound.
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
The Sheep Gang
Miles away from where you live in your sky-searching city
There's a large brown hill also wearing clouds.
Like the condemned man's blindfold.
Nothing actually grows on this rock-garbed hill,
The grass that you have in your parks doesn't even rise here.
Those sickened green blades drooped and cut the ground years ago.