Arron Sands

Arron Sands

Invited to collaborate by Judith Browning

 lung #1  ♦



Analogous facts of collective matters [perhaps affected]


There right now

One hundred years too late

One of hell’s many patriots

Rises puffing to iced coffee
Served to cool the sweats of
The night’s chaste thoughts
She hangs off the steely frame
That supports the twisted vine
Under whose canopy
She stretches and jumps in stars
And notices herself swollen
Attributing the paddle
She has now for a hand
To insect and brush

There right then
On yesterday’s innumerable k’s

Taken around the rented property of an English woman
Named Janice
In the French region formerly Gascogne
Now Gers
She contemplates collective society
(As a whole)
French, English, Argentine
And all the inconceivable abstractions
Of the impersonal state
That Borges blamed for poor individualism
She contemplates and contrives
The following lines:

And now of abuse I ask
On the borders of abundance
Where monarchs like monads pass;
Laws to rule

That Sue, Sam and men are bright
But aimlessly so in the dead of night

Having read this back to herself
She then could see
Her investigation of points concerned
Like this wouldn’t come to be

She has no Lord Fairfax
To charm with metaphysical rhyme
Only a concept of collective
She can’t define
So to it

She considers it personal
Its strength a marvel
Held and given
By a gossamer all too thin
And no amount of Gel Sensuel
Will break its opaque discipline


Lung #2


The shallow depths of de-Profundis


Ribbed trunk of Apollo
Hard and impossible to understand
With physique—

Oh so Greek!
He has but the rhymes of Rilke
To reason with

And so he demands
Are you Quentin Dupieux’s Duke?
Do all your deconstructive practices reach
To this our walnut pew?
Where we many men stand as few

To hear that
‘we all live in hell’
How clear and bright a thought
Thank you!
We who are fond of sensationalism
Can entertain this Duce
As one might the science of phenomena
By managing monumental mental efforts
Against The Mistral
Or whatever!
Through bluster at some ill place arrive
Sounded by that silence of his companions

Of indeterminate gender
Up there on Friedrich’s hill
Cheers to your (to audience) man Nan Shepherd
And all her stony figures of exertion
That know all too well
‘that to “make” conversation is ruinous’
To cause and to compel
To skirt spontaneity
To shriek at the unforeseen
To summit one of the thousand plateaus
On which we live
To print a pocket dictionary
That follows ‘fry’ with ‘fudge’
And that forgets somehow

To ‘fuck’


♦ ♦ ♦



Arron Sands is an artist and writer working across Europe.  His first collection of poetry, How Many Cats was released in 2012 by DAAT press. His forthcoming selection, Gaggia Obbligato is due to be released during 2014.


In response to: Judith Browning The Speaking Machine