Sandy Player

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

Why do I ask where to go
When caught like the wolf
Who licks an eskimo's sword?

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.
Sanguine infact.
Not a puddle, but a pool,
Something that you can immerse yourself in,

My faint white wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
The clothes are on the inside,
Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.


They lead him on,
Black wool lamb up the brown-green stepped hill
To the crookèd tree that
Bends with broken body.

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.

I seem to spend my life
Dangling the bath-plug over the hole;
Moving it up and down
Like I'm teasing a rotweiler.

Pressed up to a cold radiator,
The curtains drawn over the day
Brushing his back
And erasing the golden gloat,

They've put me back together again.
Staples and paper making up for skin,
Each perscription another dry and thin sheet.

I hold a long sable torch,
Currently dead to energy,
And put a stare into the mirror
Concavely doming the bulb;

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

A tree can't sing;
They say mice go 'squeak'
And fish go 'sploosh'
But a tree is renowned for

My word, have you murdered me?
No? Then whose word? My what? Am I killed?
Did you do it? What have you done to me?
Is it to me though, is it to me?

You, my bed,
Four legged minotaur
Soft-bellied gestapo man,
I am your running gypsy

It feels as though I am a small, Twite-like bird
Caught inside a smooth glass ball spinning
Towards the foamy lip loom of the sea;
I am going to die and I can do nothing about it. The cliff face

I lay my head down soundlessly
And watch my will trickle
Down my wedding white cheek
Until it is absorbed into the aphotic pillow.

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.

'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.

Your rain drip,
Did you not think they'd notice?
The elements?
The pure consistency of it failed to illude

Sandy Player Biography

Been writing since Sept.2011; cut me some slack...)

The Best Poem Of Sandy Player

Strawberry Typhoon

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 murderers they are.
I take a moment to clear
The field of gas,
My lips have a shake at
The idea of letting something out,
But I know it'll make the sticky trench clearer.
The fruty scent escapes the glass
And sings arie in my nose.
It seems I'm wrong.
The next two go down like a tub of salt in a childs throat
And then my agents are thrown out with
All the acidic debris they created.

The mess prods my eyes;
Tells me I wasn't quite ready,
And overpowers the aroma sickening my nostrils.
Next time it says.

Sandy Player Comments

Vishal Sharma 12 June 2013

you write beyond your ages a gifted talent

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