Paul Healy Soundsculptor

 

  littletissue of lies 

 

 

intro     statement     poem     video     music   contact

I am Paul Healy...
At this moment in time I write, make short films. Through my photography I record what goes on around me. I also produce music, I am gripped in a madness to compulsively create.
 
Warm blood, staining silk through lace.
 
 
Never underestimate the ignorance

of an artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

v

 

 

 Light changes everything. We creep forward.

   Torn arterial flooring exposing flaws in our concentration.

 Damply stained shadowy echoes under railway arched calcified cracks. 

   A hundred years of stammered footsteps have moved towards this light.

ly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All those nerve ends exposed to a light  that creeps through cracks In those silent hours.

 

 

 

 

Vertigo, with its spinning impertinence, slashed and tore

at the rubber wheeled cushion

of self deceit

Shards of steel in blueboiled oil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mute despair requires another tongue tonight

Not the eloquence of stoic silence

or the desolation of expressive eyes.

But maybe

 a surrealistic innuendo.

The swift brightness of tropical fish

turning

this way and that

in relentless pursuit of intangible shadows.

Or

barely perceptible flowers of light

finely sketched upon threadbare air

polished

by a subtle breeze

until

they are gradually revealed

as the antique

and precious halo

of some obscure saint.

gradually

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Torture combines complete humiliating exposure

with utter devastating isolation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           If I die in this strangled dream.

                    Lost forever in the cracked mirror of a certain sound,

                                               trapped in a web of deceit.

           I will always remember there were lots of birds.

                                               Brunswick green shadows clinging.

                                                                                                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TThrough a glass of crystal shadows she is too tired to dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddies little Princess will never be Queen.                                         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                 

 

 

                 

 

 

                               

 

 

 

                                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  

 

 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

                

 

 

                           

 

 

                                                                                                                                  

 

 

 

 

               

 

 

,,...,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                       

                                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Gravity kicked in. Trampling me with its indelible marks.

   I was frogmarched into a tangle of trees where summer drowned the shadows. 

             Stopped them creeping to the ground. kicked

 

 

 

Time travel is maybe .......

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                      

I am a feather

Caught in a spiders web

I can feel the hairy eight eyed monster

in the key of C

climbing the staves of her latticed world

 cold excitement

 prickly wit.

"You're just a bowl of cherries," she hums.

A solemn sunrise peers gently through the mist

 damp cobbles gently sweat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

finest Peruvian honey

 

 

New friends

storm approaching from the west.

 

Lost in a landscape of mirrors

Brazilian journey.

 

Peering through a veil of ignorance.

Fine red dust is everywhere,you become the landscape, The fruits of slavery are everywhere.

Hillsides of coffee or fields of sugarcane drive the nails of pain deep.

 

 

           everything fades except pain.    

 Today I saw the strangest thing.

A huge fish with four legs

ran across the road.

 

a tangle of trees.

Happiness.

 

Variant.

 

San Roque

Cool.

Sweet.

Voodoo

vamos nos encontrar

no meio da rua

sem ninguem nos

 

 

 

 

Summertime-2013

 

video

 

   Motherlode  

 
   Armed and dangerous  
 
 
      Time  
 
 
   Between the pages  
 
 
   In the forest of the giant monkey frog  
 
 
 

music

 

contact

paulhealy@btinternet.comPaul Healy

 

 

 

 

 

soundsculptor 2014