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  a suite of desolate elegance


Paul Grimsley

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About the Book:

This collection contains a mixture of free verse and rhyming modern poetry. The majority were written over the last two years and the final 13 were written on and posted on Spoiled Ink . It is the first published collection of Paul Grimsley who has been writing seriously since he was 16 and has had a pen in his hand since he could first think. It contains 45 poems which looks at what it is to be human; what it is to be vulnerable. The eye of the I speaking in a universal voice. This is a challenging and lyrical collection that you will want to read again and again.

About the Author:
Paul Grimsley was born in Sudbury, Suffolk, where he has spent the majority of his life. He graduated from Keele University in 1998 with a 2:1 in English and Philosophy BA (Dual Hons). He studied journalism in London. He has been doing a variety of jobs to earn a crust in the last few years but his passion for writing has never waned.

The first place where his work was published was The Writer's Voice which has been like a home away from home, and on which he has been hosting a forum on poetry and rhyme; he has also had work on,, and some of his own blog sites.

Paul likes to think he has a great sense of humour, and is renowned for being one of the most laid-back people you could ever wish to know. He is well-read and has slowly been building up an extensive library over the years, consisting of many books, copious CDs and numerous DVDs. He has not time for any of this recently as he has become addicted to writing and posting on various writing sites. What better ailment for a write to have than scribomania though?


a necessary job

it was a disjointed music of confused and entangled metabolism set off by the glissade of silver in the shiver of a shower sliding down out of a grey sky into a cornflower blue mind, touching the flesh.
what if each small collapse is a kind of synapse that thought leaps across? then this breakdown of the casual atom order might reinvigorate us.

i need the clouds to disperse in a drowning and the lightning means that the thunder never cried wolf so my universe stayed straight; i am fed up to the back teeth with the dumb and unpredictable:
i swallowed the aimed-at-truth of the situation but sicked it up back all.

the chaos means my limbs don't mean movement or resting a while, the disorder seems to say that i can laugh at the system's funeral or smile but i have method: i need a cage for my breathing as much as my skin; under the punches needs to bruise and under the sharp edges to bleed,
because fate's nets are like the platelets in my blood: they do a necessary job.

i can't teach that which operates mute: i am the bullet cause will shoot, embedded in the wall, hidden to some but not all -- it's a pattern i won't pollute. what matters is if it's steam or smoke? i can signal in both with ease all that shall be affected by the medium is the messages complexities.

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