littletissue of lies
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.
Mute despair requires another tongue tonight
Not the eloquence of stoic silence
or the desolation of expressive eyes.
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.
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.
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
"You're just a bowl of cherries," she hums.
A solemn sunrise peers gently through the mist
damp cobbles gently sweat.
finest Peruvian honey
storm approaching from the west.
Lost in a landscape of mirrors
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.
vamos nos encontrar
no meio da rua
sem ninguem nos
Armed and dangerous Time Between the pages In the forest of the giant monkey frog
soundsculptor © 2014