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.










 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.









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.











if I die in this strangled scream



to a certain sound.











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


this way and that

in relentless pursuit of intangible shadows.


barely perceptible flowers of light

finely sketched upon threadbare air


by a subtle breeze


they are gradually revealed

as the antique

and precious halo

of some obscure saint.






















Footprint collector.





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.



Shadowy figures

sharp eyed glances sending shudders, a feeling of being touched by an unseen  hand.

"I'm lost." I hear myself say.



An ocean of gently swaying reeds whisper

crystal ringing sighs.



















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








Daddies little Princess will never be Queen.                                         




IWe came this far, escaped our chasing shadows. We still run!




























































































































































































  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.





San Roque




vamos nos encontrar

no meio da rua

sem ninguem nos










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




paulhealy@btinternet.comPaul Healy






soundsculptor 2014