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Pagan Paul Aug 2017
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Have you ever wished
that the sun didn't shine,
turned to the dark and said
'Welcome friend'.

Have you ever stared
at the candles bright flame,
turned to the light and said
'Welcome back'.

© Pagan Paul (31/07/17)
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Pagan Paul Jul 2017
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I want my poems to scream of ***,
of lust and of carnal fuckery.
To ******* the seeds of words,
****-splashed on a page of muckery.

And teasing those clitoral synapses,
along nerve lines of innuendo.
Lapping verses in the valley below,
raising fantasy to literal crescendo.

I want my words to make you ***,
and ache over and over again.
To shriek my name and fall in love
with my purple tipped pen.

And with my seminal inky spillage
'pon your creamy sheets of vellum,
remember now those ***** stanzas
****** deep into your cerebellum.

© Pagan Paul (24/07/17)
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Pagan Paul Jul 2017
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A warm wet circle on my cheek,
all that remains of your presence.
In a cold grey room so empty,
that no longer holds your essence.
My skin and bones have turned to dust,
a heart dripping to pools so dry.
The fibres of being are unbound,
as you walk away and say goodbye.

© Pagan Paul (23/07/17)
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Just trying to recall what its like to have a love to lose.
PPx
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Pagan Paul Jul 2017
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Tears like raindrops roll down my face
as I start awake from another dream.
The stark isolation set in another place
reflecting the here by subconscious means.

The wind whistles a gale of fury
whilst I squat on the mountains summit.
Bracing my heart from an angry jury,
whose purpose is to find me unfit.

Not worthy, by proxy, a foregone verdict
delivered eloquently from myself to me.
Scything confidence away, I've heard it.
Raindrops taste like tears to the lonely.

Shutters and barricades drop, my armour,
holding back the bad, and the good.
Protected, the gale blows much calmer,
the stark isolation accepted and understood.

But the dream persists, always the same,
a looping litany whilst I lay asleep.
The withdrawal is but temporary in name
until I locate that which I humbly seek.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
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Pagan Paul Jul 2017
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Three meet upon the moor.
Clouds boil, the thunder roars.
Magick crackles about the tor,
voices raise to chant the call.

Fires at midnight burn with power.
Time stands still in the witching hour.
The moot works in the night to devour,
to catch the moon and starry showers.

Mystical nets float way up high.
Glowing globes with which to scrye.
The howling wind screams its cry,
as ancient powers steal the sky.


© Pagan Paul (2017)
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  Jul 2017 Pagan Paul
Lora Lee
applying his
              lingual buds
   to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
         as a lava lake,
          no stone skipped            
                          just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
   pounding thunder
        in consonants of
             taut skin drum
                nuances in vowels
         uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
              fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
        before time
              now ready
              to be filled by the
           essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
      to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
                     any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
            glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
      eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
            and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
         apart
   heart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuObGsB0No
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