The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like erotic Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.
© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)
It seems all around the world
something is happening to the girls.
The problem unto which I refer,
is their propensity to de-fur.
Deforestation is not so nice,
not for the humble pubic lice.
Extinction beckons for this bug,
for the want of a nice warm rug.
© Pagan Paul (20/04/17)
I am the bastard son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.
My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.
But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.
Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.
She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.
The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.
So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.
Well, wait there a while longer,
this bastard is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die now,
that epilogue is yet to come.
© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.
“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.
The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now Daddy is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late … far too late … to stop …
… the Judderwitch.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember Daddy at all?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember either.
Not even his face. Its very strange”.
A breeze chills their skin as they look
at the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
And the feint, feint sound
© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)
So whats happened here?
I thought it was a hack.
But no! Its deliberate.
Managers been smoking crack.
So when you come down m8,
Can we have our site back?
Because what we have now
is really rather crap.
The navigation and comments
don't really work at all.
My profile pic is wonky and
driving me up the wall.
Why was there no warning
this site was going to stall?
This format, with no consultation,
has been forced upon us all.
Its really not user friendly,
its tiny and confusing.
I suppose it depends now
on which device you are using.
A brand new smart fone?
then I guess you are cruising.
But for laptops and PC's
this formats just abusing.
So listen to your end users
and here what we have to say.
Because if you neglect them now
they just won't want to stay.
We reclaim the site we had,
we all liked it that way.
So if you are reading this poem,
reconsider you decision today.
Pagan Paul (09/04/17)